


Home Again

by kiraisstillhere



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, hayley and lindsey are just gal pals lmao, jk they're huge-ass lesbians, this story isn't as queer as i want it to be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 64,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiraisstillhere/pseuds/kiraisstillhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's queer, it's sad, and shit goes down. A Petekey fic with a mind of it's own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Things Don't Deserve Eternal Sentences To Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Hello lovely readers! This my first Petekey fic, so it might not be up to par with others, but I’ll try my best, okay? Comments and suggestions would be amazing, and welcome. I wrote a lot of this around 2:00 AM this morning, so bear with me on that. That’s it for now, I guess. I don’t know about how constant updates will be, but I’ll try to be as consistent as possible, okay? Also, this is a teenage/highschool AU, because I’m a little afraid to write one where FOB or MCR (or both) exists.
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> WARNINGS: Okay guys, this fic deals with a lot of stuff, but I promise it will get better. The triggers/things I’m warning about are as follows: self harm, depression, bipolar disorder, mentions of suicide, and child abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first petekey, i hope it's alright. it deals with a lot of shit so yeah if you can't hang with self-harm, depression, bipolar disorder, underage drinking/drugs, gay things, or ryden this story isn't for you

            Mikey sighed against the cool glass of the car’s window. This year, the end of summer was roasting, and it was apparent that the heat had climbed into the mountains as well. The trees looked sad, as if they wanted someone to water them, but were too afraid to ask.

            He absent-mindedly ran his fingers over his forearm, tracing the bumps where the blade had sliced so many times. The horizontal ones, parallel to each other at his elbow, near the bend where his bicep and forearm connected, the outline of a star that he’d made after one particularly harsh run-in with his bullies, and the un-centered, off-kilter ones closer to his wrist when he cried over his stupidity of kissing Ashley Purdy during Tay’s party; when everyone saw that Ashley had yanked him by the arm into the heated make-out session in the corner, and snaked Mikey’s arms around his waist, tugging him closer,

            The Monday after the party though, Andy, Ashley’s boyfriend, beat Mikey to a pulp with help from his friends. He threatened Mikey, saying that next time, he could forget even having the ability to hold a razor, let alone cut himself.

            But those were old scars, nothing more. He’d run out of room on his arms, not wanting to cut his biceps for fear that his brother would notice. Gerard knew Mikey had old scars on his wrists, but he’d gotten therapy for those ones. Little did Gerard know that Mikey had been finding new places on his body, places Gerard would never check.

Looking down, Mikey noted his awkward knees and thighs, where more cuts were situated, the only difference being that they were made from anger against the world, not self-loathing. His eyes traveled up, and he tugged at the hem of his shirt, thinking of the slashes that covered his torso, the last ones he’d made before Gerard threw open his bedroom door, so many nights ago.

 ------

_I reached up to my shelf in the closet, feeling around for the little box of metal pieces I had acquired over the years. Once I had a good hold on it, I pulled it down and looked at the blades. None of them would do. They were too small, too feeble. I needed something bigger. I remembered that I’d been borrowing Gee’s box cutter for a project and went to my desk. I picked up the tool, noticing that the blade was sturdy and a pretty good size for what I wanted to do._

_I walked to my door, clicked the lock, and looked on to the reflection from the mirror stuck onto the back. I lifted the box cutter to my stomach, thought about Gee for a fleeting second, then started. I don’t know how many times; I barely remember falling, Gerard banging at my door and finally having our neighbor Bob break the door down. There were faint memories of Gerard next to me, tears streaming silently down his face, smacking my cheeks, holding my head up, saying, “Stay with me, Mikes, I can’t lose you now”; the ambulance workers lifting me and Gerard crying into the phone, notifying his fiancé Frank that we’d be at the hospital._

_There were words I heard, even in my bleary state, Gee saying “They’re all self-induced. I knew he had the ones on his arms, but…” before fading into nothingness. Doctors telling Gerard that I was going into the ICU and no visitors were allowed in, and Frank getting so upset, to the point where he began yelling at the head doctor, all before the faint sound of closing doors and sweet darkness clouded over everything._

_\------_

Mikey’s head dipped and he shot awake, banging his head on the headrest behind him.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself.

“Awake now, are we?”

“Gee?” Mikey asked sleepily.

“Nah, bud. Sorry, it’s just me, Lindsey.”

Lindsey. Of course. Mikey hadn't seen his older brother since Christmas, the week after Mikey’s last foster home had pretended they couldn’t care for him and dropped him off at the Child Services office. Mikey had to admit, the couches in the lobby were not as uncomfortable as they seemed.

Mikey closed his eyes, then opened them, waking up and taking in his surroundings. The car’s interior was all black and grey, with tinted windows and comfortable seats. In all, it was a nice car.

“Where are we going?” Mikey asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“You weren't listening to Ray, were you, kiddo?” Lindsey said, taking a quick glance at Mikey in the rearview mirror.

Ray was Mikey’s social worker. He was a punk rocker and still had a band to play with. At the beginning, right after Mikey got out of the mental hospital, he’d gone to live with Ray; during his stay in the psychiatric ward, Gerard had sold the crappy apartment the two of them had shared and moved in with Frank.

It wasn't that Mikey didn't like Frank; he loved him, in fact. Frank had driven Gerard home from a bar one particularly bad night, when Gerard had tried to pick Frank up and Frank wasn’t having any of it.

Mikey had to admit one thing: Gerard was a slutty drunk. He used to bring guys home all the time. He’d take them into the back room and get on with it, then the guys would leave Gerard in the morning.

Mikey didn't understand what was going on; their parents had bailed ASAP after Mikey was old enough to eat solid food, and Gerard had been ten, and already taking on the duties of a father. He started drinking when he was eighteen, and had his first one-night stand when he was nineteen. Little baby Mikey had grown up seeing so many guys take advantage of Gerard, and he’d just gone with it. As Mikey got older, Gerard would stay out all night. He would come back hungover, and Mikey would just have a mug of black coffee and a glass of water waiting on the table in the living room in the morning. It was how they lived; it was just how it worked.

Then came Frank.

_He was twenty-three, with loads of tattoos and a lip piercing, and he just happened to be Gerard’s target of affections that night. After playing along with Gerard’s little game of eye contact for a while, Frank asked Gerard where he lived and drove him home._

_Upon entering the home, Frank found Mikey curled up in front of the couch, listening to a CD player softly playing “Today” by The Smashing Pumpkins._

_“If you want to screw him, the stuff is in the drawer in the bedside table,” Mikey said, barely moving._

_“What?” Frank asked, confused._

_Mikey adjusted himself to face Frank, squinting to see him better. “The stuff. For the. Sexytimes. Is in. the drawer. Do you need me to draw a map?”_

_“I don’t even want to do that, kid. Is he your brother?” Frank asked._

_Mikey stood up. He was tiny, skinny, and needed glasses, but Gerard couldn’t afford them, so Mikey would have to make do._

_“Yeah. Are you just going to put him to bed or something?”_

_Frank nodded. Gerard was already mostly asleep, leaning against Frank, even though Frank was shorter than Gerard. He swept Gerard up bridal-style, after Gee attempted some sort of stagger step toward the bedroom._

_Frank’s kindness confused Mikey. Just put Gee to sleep? Why would anyone do that? Hadn’t Gerard taught him that everyone is out to get something, and he just happened to help some people get theirs when he was drunk?_

_Mikey led Frank to Gerard’s room and helped him, for lack of better words, tuck Gee in. Afterwards, Frank and Mikey went back to the living room, Mikey settling back into his curled up position in front of the couch, and Frank getting his jacket before noticing that Mikey was on the floor._

_“Shit, kid. Do you sleep out here?”_

_“Gee gets the bedroom ‘cause he brings guys home.”_

_“Man, you can’t live this way,” Frank said. “Have you even eaten dinner yet?”_

_“I ate half a bag of the party size Doritos,” Mikey offered._

_“That’s it,” Frank said, setting his jacket back down. “I’m staying here. And making you an actual breakfast in the morning. And taking you to school. You need some structure, not eating some chips and calling it dinner or waiting, hoping your brother comes home.”_

_Mikey watched Frank, telling him where their extra blankets were and anything else helpful. He laid a pillow down where the floor and wall met, covered himself with a blanket, and went silent._

_Mikey pretended to sleep, wondering about this strange man who’d come into his home, carrying Gerard and putting him to sleep, never once judging or questioning anything._

_The next morning, when Gerard came shuffling out of his bedroom around ten, Mikey and Frank were sitting on the couch in the living room, eating breakfast and talking._

_“Morning Gee!” Mikey said cheerfully. “Your coffee is on the counter in the kitchen, and there are some pancakes under the foil next to it. Frank’s vegetarian, too, so no bacon or anything, but we didn’t have any strips in the first place. Frank was just getting ready to take me to school, so don’t worry about writing a note or anything. Frank’s got that covered too.”_

_“Who’s Frank?” Gerard asked sleepily._

_Frank stood up, dusting pancake crumbs off of his shirt. “I brought you home from the bar last night. You really shouldn’t be drinking so much for a twenty-six year old; you’re going to mess up your liver and nobody will be able to watch Mikey.”_

_Gerard just stared at Frank, wondering if he’d drank too much or something. One of his one-night stands staying long enough for him to wake up was one thing, but staying and making breakfast, and watching Mikey? Something was up._

_“If you want to pay me, I don’t do that,” Gerard told Frank bluntly._

_“Pay you? We didn’t even do anything. Mikey and I put you in bed and fell asleep out here.”_

_Gerard looked at Mikey, who nodded. Frank looked at the clock over the entrance to the kitchen._

_“Crap! Mikey, we gotta go.”_

_Mikey got off the couch and took his and Frank’s dishes to the sink. He grabbed his backpack, sliding it on as he opened the door._

_“Bye, Gee. Sleep a little more and eat if you feel like it. Frank’s gonna pick me up from school too, so don’t worry,” Mikey said as he closed the door._

_Frank did just that. And did the same the following days, staying the week with the brothers. He went home after that week, but he never failed to get over to their apartment as soon as possible, making breakfast for the brothers and getting Mikey to and from school on time._

_Finally, Frank asked Gerard to be his boyfriend, and later, his husband, both of which Gerard had agreed to in a heartbeat. They were going to get married, but Mikey had to go to the hospital, and they put it all off until he got better, saying he had to be there in order for it to be perfect._

“Of course I didn’t listen to Ray; I was half-asleep and that bitch from Child Services was still there, giving me a death glare,” Mikey said.

“We’re going to the Williams Teen Health Home. Or, you are technically. I’m just dropping you off,” Lindsey said.

“I don’t want to go to some old whack-nut’s idea of a home for kids with issues.”

Lindsey just sighed. “You have to; it’s required by law.”

“Dammit.”

“Some things don’t deserve eternal sentences to hell, Mikey.”

“And some things do. Like that wench from Child Services.”

Lindsey shook her head. “What’s your beef with her, anyway?”

“She made me leave Ray’s house.”

Living with Ray had been one of the best things Mikey had ever had.

Since the other three were Lindsey, Gerard, and Frank, Mikey had an idea that his joys were a bit more based on a trust complex than other kids.

Mikey had lived with Ray right after he’d left the psychiatric ward. Since Gerard had moved in with Frank, the brothers would have been living in a new area, which meant a new school district. The doctor’s didn’t deem it healthy for Mikey to be dropped into a new school right after his “incident”, and Mikey didn’t want to deal with being the “new kid” with a load of rumors following him, even if they were partly true.

So Mikey had gone to live with Ray for a year. He’d met the other members of Ray’s band: Gabe, the bassist, Alex, the other guitarist and lead singer, and Christian, the drummer. Gabe had taught him to play bass, and Mikey poured his heart and soul into the instrument, even if it was the extra one Gabe always brought over for him, as he didn’t own one.

When Child Services came to pick him up and take him to his first foster home, it was the first and only time Mikey had ever broken Ray’s rules.

 

 

 

_I made sure Ray was making lunch, watching some muted Food Network tutorial on the TV while some band sang about “Save yourself, I’ll hold them back tonight” from the CD player in the living room._

_I quietly went into the back of the house, where the bedrooms were, and went into Ray’s room. I’d been in here before; it wasn’t forbidden. The prohibited area was at the back of Ray’s closet, on the floor, in a safe. I quietly slid the closet door open and pushed some shirts aside. I opened the safe; Ray didn’t keep it locked, and carefully took the .45 out. I checked to make sure the safety was on, and then placed everything back where it had been, save the fact that I had the loaded gun in my hands. I got up and walked to my room, and set the gun on my pillow. I didn’t really want to die, I just wanted to stay with Ray for a while, and then move in with Gerard and Frank. I decided that, if driven to it, I’d shoot my shoulder._

_I went into the living room and lay on the couch. Ray suspected nothing. Perfect._

_I heard the doorbell ring, and Ray came into the room and turned the music off._

_“It’ll be okay, bud.”_

_He went and answered the door, letting a single woman with a business suit that looked like it was cut for a paper doll follow him into the living room._

_“Michael,” the woman said. “Time to go.”_

**_Bitch_ ** _, I thought. **Don’t use my full name.**  “No.”_

_“Michael, we have to leave. Your new family is expecting you, on time._

_“I don’t want to leave.”_

_“Michael,” the woman said firmly. She was getting angry. That was good for my plan._

_“Yes?” I asked, my attitude barely covered by my faux innocence._

_“Get. Up.”_

_She grabbed my arm and tried to yank me up. I stood and booked it to my bedroom with a speed my PE teacher didn’t know I had. I slammed my door, knowing Ray would follow for sure, and clicked the lock. I heard running, and footsteps settling at my door. Once it was quiet, I knew my plan was working._

_I clicked the safety off the gun._

_“Mikey, tell me that’s not what I think it is.”_

_He sounded scared. Very scared._

_“I’ll do it, Ray,” I threatened._

_Ray knew he had to tread carefully now. He knew I wouldn’t put a bullet in my brain, but I would put a bullet somewhere._

_“Michael, we need to leave now. I suggest you stop whatever game you are playing and come with me.”_

_“Listen here, m’lady,” I said sarcasm and anger blending nicely. “I’ve got a loaded gun, and I’m not afraid to put it against my temple and pull the fucking trigger.”_

_The doorknob jiggled and I heard hushed voices. I grinned._

_“Mikey?” Ray tried again, softly. “Can you open the door and let me in?”_

_“If I do, that bitch will come in and take me away from you.”_

_I heard a gasp and smirked._

_“Mikey, it’ll just be me.”_

_“Just you?”_

_“Just me, kid.”_

_I sat on the bed, and then lay down. I covered my eyes with one hand. The other held the gun towards the wall, resting the weapon on my stomach. “Turn the knob and lift up,” I said, knowing my knob didn’t actually lock properly._

_Ray moved the knob and rushed inside. He took the gun from me and clicked the safety on. He unloaded the clip and set everything on the floor. I just lay there, unmoving._

_“Mikes,” Ray said. Only Frank ever called me Mikes. Gee had picked up on it too. And apparently Ray as well._

_“If you act out enough, I’ll come get you.”_

_I took my hand away from my eyes._

_“Promise?”_

_“Punk’s honor,” Ray said. He smiled a secret smile, and I complied enough to get up and go to the car with the lady, albeit I had to listen to her bitch about my “bad choices” all the way to my new house of hell._

_\-------_

And so ensued two years of Mikey acting out, threatening to set the house on fire, wreck the car, and so forth. He’d put bleach in the conditioner bottle for his “parents” shower. At the last house, he’d gone out and gotten high with the guys from his classes, even after promising himself he’d never touch drugs after Gerard’s years of slavery to them. He’d been escorted home by the police, still in the high, so many times that the family finally had had enough. They shoved him in the car, drove to the Child Services office, and dropped him off; saying that they felt their home was “inadequate for his needs”.

Now, he was sixteen and being sent to some place called the Williams Teen Health Home in the middle of the mountains. There was a town about twenty minutes by car, where the school of which most of the Home’s residents attended during the year.

“Hey, bucko, did’ya hear me?”

“Huh? What?” Mikey had zoned out and Lindsey had been talking. Again.

“’Course you didn’t. I said we’re almost there, so you might want to get your stuff together.”

“It’s in a backpack, Linds. I don’t have anything to get together.”

“You’ve got your bass?”

“It’s in the backseat.”

Mikey looked back lovingly at the case that held his bass. Ray had bought it for him the year Gabe had taught him how to play. It had stayed at Ray’s house, in the corner of Mikey’s room. Ray had dropped it off with Lindsey before he’d gone to pick Mikey up for his adventure in the mountains. He’d thrown a fit in the parking lot when he’d found out that Lindsey had put it in the trunk and not the backseat.

 

\--

 

The sound of gravel crunching under the tires gave Mikey the heads up that they had arrived at their destination.

“Okay, kiddo. Time to get out.”

“I don’t want to go, Lindsey,” Mikey said.

Lindsey climbed out of the front seat and walked around to Mikey’s side. She opened the door for him and leaned over, unbuckling Mikey’s seatbelt.

He turned his head toward the dashboard and sighed.

“C’mon Kiddo. You gotta go.”

“I’m scared, Lindsey. I’m truly, honestly scared this time.”

“Can you put on your “tough guy” personality and et through greetings?”

Mikey turned toward Lindsey. He wanted to cry. He really wanted a razor, but that wasn’t happening.

Lindsey ruffled his hair. “Aw, bucko. I know how you feel. I promise I’ll come visit, after you’ve adjusted. I’ll even drag Ray out here. Would you like that?” She smiled her hand still on Mikey’s head.

“What about Gee? And Frank? I want to see them too,” Mikey said quietly.

“I’ll bring them too. We can all go out to lunch or something. But you gotta promise me you’ll stay for the first month. It’s always the hardest, okay? I’ll bring Frank and Gerard and Ray and we’ll all go out to lunch, but you have to work hard this first month. Got it?”

Mikey nodded weakly.

“That’s my boy,” Lindsey said. She leaned in and kissed him on the forehead, much like a mother would kiss her baby.

Mikey stood and got out of the car. He lifted his backpack, a beaten up black-and-white checkered one with a few Smashing Pumpkins and Joy Division buttons on it, near the top. It held everything he’d ever wanted to keep. He reached into the backseat and grabbed his bass, then walked with Lindsey to the building.

 

\--

 

Mikey and Lindsey stood on the front porch of a moderately big two-story house. Lindsey had knocked on the door, and now they were waiting for someone to answer. A few moments later, they heard footsteps, and a woman with bright orange hair opened the door.

“Lindsey! I haven’t seen you in forever!” The woman said. She threw her arms around Lindsey in a massive hug, and Lindsey did the same.

When they finished hugging, Lindsey turned her attention to Mikey.

“Well now, who’s this?”

“Hayley, meet your newest resident, Mikey,” Lindsey told the woman.

“Sweet! Is that a guitar or a bass?” Hayley asked.

“Uh, um, it-it’s a bass,” Mikey stammered. Clearly, the tough guy persona was not working.

“Aw, he’s a shy one, isn't he?” Hayley commented.

Lindsey grinned and rustled Mikey’s hair again. ‘He’s not too shy once you get to know him. He gets nervous around new people and settings though. His previous residencies weren't the best.

Hayley looked apologetically at Mikey. “I hope that living here is better. I’ll get Pete down here and have him take you to your room. You’re not opposed to sharing, are you?”

Mikey shook his head quickly, and Hayley smiled.

“Good. Wait here a second.”


	2. A Stranger and a Guitar Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo, it's the second chapter! What does everyone think?

“Pete!”

Pete took off his headphones, quiet bird chirps taking the place of Joy Division, and hoped that Hayley was actually calling for him and he wasn’t hearing things.

“Yeah?” He yelled down the stairs from his room.

“Come down here! Your roommate’s here!”

His roommate. Pete rolled off his bed and started down the stairs. He’d wanted a roommate for a while, and Hayley had promised that the next boy who arrived would be just that. The Home had been getting a lot of girls lately, which wasn’t bad, but Pete wanted some testosterone too.

“Pete! You coming?”

“Yeah, just gimme a second!”

Pete made is way downstairs to Hayley. She was standing in the middle of the doorway, her bright orange hair held back with bobby pins because it was too short for anything else. She was blocking the new resident, something Pete noticed she’d made a habit of since he was six and had arrived at the Home. He’d had a habit of hiding from every new person who showed up, so Hayley began to hide them from him.

Hayley stepped to the side to introduce the new kid, and Pete laid eyes on the most beautiful boy he had ever seen.

He had dark, brown-blonde hair tucked messily under a grey-green beanie that had been twisted a bit, like he’d been sleeping. He had glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, like he’d forgotten to push them up, and his knees were bowed, bending towards each other. Behind him, Pete noticed a guitar case.

The boy was biting his lip nervously, and he was standing a bit behind another woman at the door.

“Well, don’t just gawk at him. Come over and introduce yourself,” Hayley said in her usual bubbly voice.

Pete walked over, hands in his pockets. Hayley ruffled his hair.

“I’m going to talk with Lindsey, okay? You two introduce yourselves, take him up to your room, and you can finish your homework later, after dinner, okay?” Hayley said brightly.

Pete nodded, and Hayley stepped outside, off the porch with Lindsey, leaving Pete standing alone with a stranger and a guitar case.

“Uh, hi. I- I’m Pete, your roommate.” Pete pushed his hands further into his pockets, balling his fists up. He wondered nervously if he should shake the boy’s hand. After all, Pete didn’t know his past. He wasn’t sure if the pretty boy had been abused or hurt by others. Pete took the plunge and extended his hand shakily.

The boy reached out tentatively and shook back. “I- I’m Mikey.”

Oh, god, he shook my hand, Pete thought. Wow, I sound like a teenage girl. Actually, most teenage, scratch that, all teenage girls scare the living shit outta me. They could care less unless someone is bleeding on their period. Ugh, periods. Guys didn’t have periods. At least I don’t have to worry about arguing over who is going to buy Midol when I date a guy. I want to date a guy. Guys are cute. Girls are bitchy.

Pete’s mind was going a million miles a minute, and it was based solely on the fact that Mikey had shaken his hand. When Mikey pulled his hand away, Pete wished that it was because he was going in for a hug.

What the fuck? Pete questioned himself. A hug? I don’t like people touching me. Why the hell would I want a hug from someone? Especially somebody I just met?

Mikey was looking at Pete, almost expectantly. He was standing on the porch and looked like he wanted to curl up in a ball. Pete realized he probably wanted to come inside the house.

“Um, come in – inside, I mean. I’ll, uh, show you to our room. D’ya want me to carry anything?”

Mikey shook his head and picked up the case. Pete noted that he was pretty protective of it. He wondered if the boy played or if it was given to him in hope that he would learn how to play whilst gone.

Pete turned around and sucked in a deep breath. He prayed that Mikey didn’t notice how much he was blushing.

“Um, right this way,” Pete said, motioning up the stairs and leading the way. Mikey trailed behind. Taking in everything, Pete supposed.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Pete noticed Mikey staring at all the doors that lined the hall on both times.

“Our room is at the very back, at the end of the hall,” Pete told Mikey, leading him down to their door. He’d left it open when he’d gone downstairs.

“Welcome to your bedroom, I guess,” Pete said sheepishly. “That’s your bed, and this one’s mine.”

Pete’s bed was under the only window in the room. Mikey’s bed turned out to be nearly an exact copy of his own. Even the black duvet and weirdly striped and spotted sheets matched. The only difference was that Pete’s bed looked lived in, the sheets tossed to one side of the bed and a divot in it where he slept.

Currently, his open geometry book, a calculator, and around four mechanical pencils claimed his sleeping spot. Pete sat a where he’d been sitting before Mikey had arrived.

“I’m sorry if you don’t like the bedding or anything,” Pete said quickly. “Hayley told me someone was coming, so I needed to make thee bed look nice. I’m pretty sure she’d let me take you into town if you wanted to get new ones…”

“It’s perfect,” Mikey said quietly, as if his words were delicate and could break by being spoken too loud. He turned to face Pete. “Thank you.”

“Any time, man,” Pete slipped into casual jargon as he became more comfortable with Mikey’s existence.

Mikey started to smile, and then stopped, almost as if he was afraid to. Pete realized that the act was probably foreign to him. He also realized that someone giving him a nice bed was probably something that had ever been done before. He wondered what made Mikey tick, what his back story was; was it as shady as his or did a lot of people know about it? Did he like people or did he like to be alone most of the time?

I’m going to stay with him, Pete promised himself. I don’t care if the relationship is completely platonic or friends with benefits or an actual boyfriend. I’m staying by his side.

Mikey began to unpack, and Pete could help but watch as he moved around warily, keeping his shoulders hunched ever so slightly. Mikey placed his phone on the bedside table, the guitar case next to his bed, leaned against the wall. He set his backpack on the bed and pulled a book titled Ecstasy: Three Tales of Chemical Romance out, and then settled down to read it. He was lying on the bed, the book propped up in front of him, and he was completely focused.

Pete shook his head and turned to his math homework.

I can’t stare at him. He’ll think I’m a creep. I need to focus on SoCahToa and how to use trig functions. Not Mikey. But Mikey’s so pretty…

Pete attempted to do his homework (with a glance at Mikey ever so often), because he didn’t want to miss out if Hayley wanted to talk after dinner.

“Hey, Pete?” Mikey asked, looking up from his book and down his nose, through his glasses. His eyes looked gorgeous.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. A lot.”

“For what?”

“For everything you’ve done.”

Pete was struck speechless by Mikey’s thank-you. He was about to answer, but Mikey bent down, completely engrossed in his book once again. 

******

A captain’s bell that Hayley had bought at a thrift store rang downstairs; alerting the other residents outside to god knows what. Pete never left the house, save school and grocery trips for Hayley. Mikey glanced nervously at the corner of the room.

“That doesn’t mean anything for us, Mikey.”

Mikey went back to reading, but he tugged the book a little closer. Those little things he did alerted Pete that something was up. Something that made Mikey uncomfortable.

“Do you want to sit with me, Mikey?” Pete asked softly. He scooted to the side offering room to sit.

Mikey shook his head ever so slightly, and continued reading. Pete finished his homework; he was currently laid on his side, staring at his reflection in the closet’s mirrored doors. He glanced at Mikey from time to time, but his pretty boy never lifted his head, and Pete realized he’d fallen asleep. 

******

“Pete! Mikey! Dinner time!”

Hayley’s voice echoed through the front door and up the stairs.

Pete stood and walked over to Mikey’s bed, intending to wake him up, but as he happened upon the boy’s sleeping frame, he couldn’t.

Mikey was breathing softly. His beanie had slipped off, revealing the rest of his unkempt and clearly un-brushed hair. His glasses were askew; the left lens now perched on his nose. Pete couldn't help but stare a little longer at the relaxed face of his Sleeping Beauty.

“Mikey?” He asked quietly, as to not startle the beautiful boy. “We gotta go get dinner.”

Mikey took a deep breath and nestled closer into the groove between his book and the covers, a slightly troubled look appearing on his face.

“Hey, Mikey?” Pete said again, debating on jostling Mikey’s shoulder.

Luckily, he didn't have to. Mikey rolled onto his back, waking up. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, then placed the glasses back on.

“Did I miss something?” He asked, yawning afterwards.

Pete filled the yawn away as something really cute that Mikey did.

“What do you mean?” Pete asked.

“You’re standing by my bed. The last time I saw you, you were offering me a place to sit on your bed.

“Oh, I, uh, got up because it’s time for dinner, and Hayley made dessert, and um…” Pete trailed off as Mikey stared up at him with hazel eyes.

“Uh, thanks. A – a lot,” Mikey stammered. “You didn't have to.”

“It’s nothing,” Pete said sheepishly, blushing as he looked at the carpeting with new interest.

Mikey stood up and fixed his hair, failing miserably without a brush, and yanked his beanie on.

 

“We’d better get going if you want dessert.”


	3. Chapter Three: He's Pretty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee! Third chapter! Okay, I'm done. This is Mikey's PoV.

Pete ate like a little kid. He ate a forkful of everything on his plate, and then proceeded to eat each item in the order of which tasted best. Or at least, that’s what Mikey assumed.

“Mikey are you gonna eat?” Pete asked, looking up from his plate with wide brown eyes.

“Wha – uh, oh, yeah. I am,” Mikey stammered. He hoped he wasn’t blushing as bad as he thought he was. He’d been so caught up in watching Pete that he’d almost forgotten there was dinner in front of him too.

Hayley poked her head out from the kitchen. “Mikey, if you don’t like anything, just tell me; I’ll make something that doesn’t include it.”

“No, thank you. I like everything; today’s just been a bit more eventful than usual.”

Hayley nodded and went back into the kitchen, then into the backyard, where all the other kids were eating. Pete hadn’t explained why he was still eating inside; outside was nice, and Mikey almost wished he could eat out there. He felt the need to keep Pete company, though. He felt like Pete usually sat alone in the little dining room. Something told him Pete wasn’t that fond of large groups of people. Neither was Mikey, so it worked out just fine.

So it was just the two of them eating together.

“Mikey, do you feel okay?” Pete asked, an edge of worry in his voice.

“What? Why?” Mikey stuttered on his response. He hoped his sweatshirt sleeves hadn’t ridden up to reveal what he was hiding while he’d been asleep.

“Well, you’re really skinny, and I – I guess I’m just worried.”

He thinks I have an eating disorder. Mikey breathed a sigh of relief internally. Shit, now I have to let him know that I’m alright.

“Oh. Um, I – I don’t have anything like that.” Mikey assured Pete. “I’m just not used to this much food. We didn’t have much food at my house.”

“Okay,” Pete smiled weakly, and was that relief Mikey saw? “I just wanted to make sure you were fine.”

Mikey thought Pete was fine, but in a matter completely unrelated to his health and well-being. He picked up his fork and began eating. Some rice and bean thing, with vegetables on the side. He tried to eat slowly though, making sure to pace himself as to not get sick.

Every once in a while, he would glance up to watch Pete, and had caught him looking back once or twice. Mikey felt that both he and Pete knew the other was blushing like crazy by the end of their meal, but neither would admit it.

A while later, Hayley came back into the dining room and announced that she was finished baking. Pete grinned and gathered his and Mikey’s plates, brushing their fingers for just a moment. Pete disappeared into the kitchen, and when he came back, his hand held a plate with chocolate chip cookies.

A while later, a few of the other residents came inside and went up the stairs and Mikey heard most of doors upstairs shut.

“Pete, it’s almost ten. Everyone else is in their rooms already,” Hayley said as she emerged from the kitchen. “Mikey, I want to talk to you, if that’s alright.”

Mikey nodded quietly, reverting back to silence as an answer for everything.

“I’ll just be in the bedroom, Mikey,” Pete told him, before getting up and exiting the room. Hayley took Pete’s chair and flipped it backwards, then sat down, resting her elbows on the tabletop. She waited until the opening and shutting of the door of Mikey and Pete’s room could be heard.

“How’s it going, kiddo?” Hayley asked.

Only Lindsey calls me kiddo, Mikey thought possessively. But Lindsey trusts Hayley. I guess she can call me kiddo, too.

Mikey shrugged as a response, a newfound focus on the grains of wood in the tabletop.

“You know, Pete plays bass too,” she supplied. “You should ask him about it; I’m sure he’d love to show you. He doesn’t have his own, though.”

Mikey shrugged again.

“Do you like Pete?”

Mikey nodded, maybe a little too quickly for his own liking, but never looked up from the table. “He’s a good roommate.”

“Not as a roommate, Mikey. Do you like Pete?” Hayley asked.

“I – yeah. I like him,” Mikey mumbled.

“What do you think of him?”

“He’s pretty,” Mikey answered, getting a bit more comfortable with Hayley’s presence.

“Pretty?” Hayley wondered, wanting an explanation but not pressing for one.

Mikey nodded. “He’s got these big, round, doe eyes, and they crinkle at the sides when he smiles and he’s so short, so that when he talks he has to look up at me, and I just get lost in his eyes, and then I have to pretend I heard him. They’re warm and full of happiness; they make me think everything is going to be okay…” Mikey trailed off, lost in his world of Pete’s pretty eyes.

Hayley grinned. “I think he likes you, too, Mikey. But he wasn’t always like that.”

“Like what?”

“All happy and a bundle of wired up energy when he gets enough sugar. Pete was pretty scared when he first came here; that’s partly why he eats in here and not with the other kids. It’s also why he hasn’t had a roommate until now, and he’s been here since he was little. He has a bit of trouble with people, so I’m surprised he gets along with you so well.”

“What happened to him?” Mikey asked timidly. He looked up from the table.

“Only Pete and a few people know, and that’s how it stays. It’s kind of like your situation.”

She cast her eyes to the sleeves of Mikey’s sweatshirt, then back up to meet his eyes. “You wouldn’t tell just anybody, would you?”

Mikey shook his head. He wouldn’t tell any person about it, and maybe that’s how Pete was, too. He might want to know Pete’s past, but that didn’t matter as much as keeping Pete happy.

Hayley checked the clock on the wall. “You should head up to your room. Tomorrow is your last day here before school, so just relax, okay?”

Mikey nodded, and he and Hayley went their separate ways to their bedrooms.

 

Pete was already in bed when Mikey came in the room. He was sleeping soundly, the blankets pulled around his face, almost cocooning him.

Mikey was grateful that Pete was asleep. As much as he wore his sweatshirt and skinny jeans during the day, they were hell to sleep in at night.

Especially his skinny jeans, as they were tighter than a girl’s corset on prom night, if the girl were the Incredible Hulk and they were trying to tie it on his pinkie finger.

He took the sweatshirt off, facing away from the mirrored closet doors, and peeled of his jeans ever so slowly. Because if they didn’t look like he painted them on every morning, they were absolutely useless. Mikey yanked on some pajama bottoms and hoped his Anthrax shirt would last another night. Or day. Or week.

He took off his beanie and set it on the bedside table, then took his glasses off and placed them on top of the beanie.

He was exhausted. Mikey closed his eyes and fell asleep, not even bothering to turn off the lamp on the table.

 

That was chapter three. I know it’s annoying to have this as the only thing to tide you over until the next chapter, but it’s all I have right now.


	4. Don't Romanticize It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter four what????? I hope you like it!

Mikey came into the room around eleven thirty. Pete was wrapped in the blankets with his eyes closed, pretending to sleep. He listened to the sound of Mikey getting ready for bed and getting under the covers. The light never went out, but Pete heard Mikey’s breathing get soft and slow.

He sounded like that when he was napping earlier, Pete thought. Wow, that sounded creepy. I just happened to notice him breathing like that when he’s asleep. Nothing weird there.

Pete sighed inwardly. Mikey was such a beautiful boy.

I wonder if he likes me the same way that I like him. Oh god, I sound like a thirteen year-old with a crush. Well, there’s no other way to say it. I’m just going to stick with that analogy.

Pete had a rather large crush on Mikey, and he simply could not deny that fact.

He was shaken from his thoughts about his non-existent love life with whimpers from Mikey’s side of the room. Pete sat up, worried for his pretty boy, and saw that the covers had been thrown aside to reveal Mikey cowering in the fetal position, his knees held to his chest.

Pete watched Mikey shake, wondering if he should help him.

But what if he doesn’t like being touched? He could be like Macie; she was a germophobe on the extreme. Come within twenty feet and she would scream. I don’t have to touch him. He could just wake up and need someone to tell him he’s okay. That’s what Joe needed whenever he panicked.

Pete shook his head. Mikey made a strangled noise and Pete climbed out of bed. Or rather, disentangled himself from the sheets and crossed the room to Mikey’s bed. He couldn’t stand to hear the sounds Mikey was making. Pete knew it was creepy, but if he was still in bed he didn’t know what he’d do.

Pete saw tears slicked down Mikey’s cheeks. His brow was furrowed in a fearful expression and he lifted one arm from his knees to block his face from an invisible attacker. Pete could only stand and watch as Mikey trembled, locked in his nightmare.

“Andy, I’m sorry, please stop, stop, I’m sorry, please.”

Mikey was begging “Andy” to stop doing something to him. Pete didn’t want Mikey to stay asleep, but he didn’t want to wake him either.

I still don’t know if he has a thing against people touching him or not. I mean, he shook my hand this morning, but that was him being cordial. This is different. I don’t want to scare him.

Mikey uncurled from the fetal position and began to thrash on the bed. Pete couldn’t stand it anymore. He reached over and shook Mikey’s shoulder vigorously. Mikey jumped a little, then curled back into a ball and began crying. Pete sat on the edge of Mikey’s bed, not thinking about whether or not Mikey would freak out, and gently placed Mikey’s head in his lap. He patted and stroked Mikey’s hair, pulling out of his face as the tears ran down.

I sincerely hope that Mikey doesn’t have a germ thing, Pete thought to himself.

Mikey whimpered again.

“Shh, Mikey,” Pete comforted his pretty boy. “It’s okay, he can’t get you now. They’re not here. You’re safe.”

Mikey’s crying gradually got softer, until there was no sound but his soft breathing. He was asleep. Pete decided to tuck Mikey back into bed, properly, knowing full well that Mikey could wake up at any time.

Pete carefully placed Mikey’s head on the pillow and was moving his torso when he saw Mikey’s forearms.

Pete gasped softly. It was as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. Mikey didn’t have an eating disorder.

But he’d done that to himself.

Pete looked at both arms, laced with scars, chronicling his sad story. Mikey was beautiful. Pete wasn’t going to romanticize the scars; he wasn’t going to tell Mikey that he was still beautiful to him.

If I ever get the chance, I’m going to tell Mikey that he’d made a stupid choice. Sure, it had probably felt like there was no other outlet, but that doesn’t mean it was a good idea.

Pete tucked the blankets around Mikey and turned to walk to his bed when he heard Mikey’s cracked, paper-thin voice in the near-darkness of the room.

“Please don’t go.”

Pete stopped, and slowly walked back to Mikey’s bed. Mikey groggily pulled the covers back, meaning for Pete to lie next to him.

Do I really want to do this? Pete asked himself. What if he doesn’t know who I am?

Pete shrugged his shoulders and climbed under the blankets. He rolled onto his side and fell asleep.

-

The next morning, Pete awoke on his back, and blinked his eyes, wondering where he was and why there was a weight on his chest. He panicked, disoriented and thinking his mother had done something again. He looked down, and his panic slowly receded as he realized the weight was Mikey’s head and arm.

During the night, Mikey had managed to expertly drape his left arm across Pete, from his right shoulder to his left hip. Mikey’s head was resting over Pete’s heart. Pete breathed a sigh of relief and settled his left arm over Mikey’s side. Mikey took a deep breath and snuggled closer to Pete’s side, but didn’t stir past that.

Pete knew Hayley was up making breakfast for everyone. Though he thoroughly enjoyed having Mikey clutching onto his shoulder, Pete wanted to talk to Hayley about something.

“I’m sorry, Mikey,” Pete mumbled softly. “But I gotta get up.”

Pete carefully disentangled himself from Mikey’s grasp and padded out of the room with bare feet.

When he got to the kitchen, Hayley was already making the first batch of pancake batter while the skillet heated up. Pete grinned. He loved Hayley’s pancakes.

“How’d you sleep?” Hayley asked brightly.

Pete yawned. “Good.”

“How good is “good”?”

“Mikey had a nightmare last night,” Pete said, not sure if he was changing the subject or not.

“Is he okay?” Hayley asked.

“He didn’t wake up, so I guess he’s oaky. He kept telling someone named Andy that he was sorry about something.”

Hayley stopped mixing the batter for a second and looked up. “Maybe I should give him his own room until he stops having nightmares.”

“No,” Pete said, a little more quickly than he’d wished. “I can deal with it.”

Hayley smirked. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” Pete inquired.

“That you like him!” Hayley stated triumphantly.

“What? Uh, erm, Hayley?” Pete stammered.

“Tell me the truth,” Hayley said, turning around and leaning her back against the counter. “Do you like Mikey?”

She was like a teenager asking if her best friend liked anyone.

“He’s… attractive,” Pete said slowly.

“Pete?” Hayley prodded gently. “Come on. You can tell me anything.”

“Okay, he’s really attractive. And shy. And bookish. And I really just want to cuddle with him and watch cheesy movies. But I don’t know, Hayley.”

“Don’t know what?”

“He self-harmed, Hayley. I saw the scars last night. I just don’t know.”

“I knew about them,” Hayley said softly. “None of you guys would be here, at my little place, if you didn’t have something a little off about you. But I’ve got a more important question: how’d you see the scars last night if you were asleep?”

Shit, was all Pete could think.

“Morning guys.”

In the doorway of the kitchen stood Mikey, who was yawning and rubbing his eyes at the moment. Pete filed that under “things that make Mikey fucking adorable”. He also breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that Mikey’s entrance had stopped him from explaining last night to Hayley.

“Good morning, Mikey,” Hayley said, sounding just like she had when she greeted Pete. “Did you sleep well?”

Mikey shrugged and sat on the countertop next to Pete, who had perched himself on top when he walked into the kitchen. Mikey yawned again and Pete hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“I had a nightmare, but it was followed by a really good dream, so I guess it wasn’t that bad of a night.”

“Care to elaborate?” Hayley asked, pouring pancake batter onto the skillet.

“Well, at, at first, i-it was like, a flashback of this guy, Andy, th-the day he beat me up for kissing his boyfriend, Ashley. He gave me a pretty bad beating, and I guess my ribs were bruised or something, but I just went home and didn’t tell my brother, because we couldn’t afford hospital bills, and so, I just stayed quiet, and I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep, because my ribs hurt so much, and I called for Gerard, and, well, he comforted me, and tucked me back into bed, and got in next to me, like when we were younger, and I guess I stopped dreaming after that.”

Pete breathed an internal sigh of relief, though he was slightly disappointed that Mikey didn’t know who had actually tucked him in.

“So, Gerard is your brother’s name?” Hayley asked.

“Yeah…” Pete glanced at Mikey, who was now staring into empty space. He seemed happy, but also a bit sad. Perhaps he was thinking of his brother.

“So, Pete,” Hayley asked, breaking the awkward silence that had settled. “I was thinking: you wanna take the car into town with Mikey and get supplies?”

“Supplies?” Pete asked. “What on Earth do we need supplies for?”

“No, Pete. School supplies. You both need some for tomorrow.”

“Wha-?” Mikey asked, shaken from his daydream by his name.

“You start school tomorrow, sweetie,” Hayley said. “I know that you would much rather spend another week settling in, but Lindsey asked me to put you into school right away.”

Mikey put his head down and slid off the counter.

“What’s wrong?” Pete asked.

“I’m going back to the room,” Mikey replied quietly.

Pete watched Mikey leave the kitchen. A few moments later, he heard their door shut.


	5. I Bet You Twenty Bucks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [REALLY FRIGGING HUGE TRIGGER WARNING PEOPLE! LIKE, NEON LIGHTS BLINKING AND ALL CAPS AND ARROWS POINTING TO THE TRIGGER WARNING ON THIS CHAPTER! IT GETS BETTER, BUT THE BEGINNING IS PRETTY BAD. PLEASE DON'T READ IF YOU THINK THAT IT WILL CAUSE YOU TO DO SOMETHING. I LOVE YOU ALL.]

“You start school tomorrow, sweetie,” Hayley said. “I know that you would much rather spend another week settling in, but Lindsey asked me to put you into school right away.”

Mikey's stomach clenched when Hayley said he'd be starting school tomorrow. He knew that he would start school around the beginnning of the year, that much Lindsey had told him, but actually starting it the day of? And after he had just moved homes?

Mikey's fingers tingled. It happened whenever something that didn't bode well was happening.

Mikey put his head down, trying to hide his face.

"What's wrong?" Pete asked.

"I'm going back to the room," he said quietly.

Pete wouldn't understand, Mikey thought as he quickly climbed the stairs. He doesn't get the feeling of forboding. He doesn't know. Telling him would make me seem like a freak. Pete would never like me. Hayley doesn't know what she's talking about.

He went into the bedroom and sat on his bed. The bed Pete had tried to make as welcoming as possible. Mikey was glad the sheets were black. Hiding the evidence would be a lot easier.

Mikey sighed. And I was making such good progress, according to Ray.

He got up off the bed and pulled his bass from its position against the wall and set it on the bed, opening it. It was the one place that Ray nor Lindsey would have checked. He glanced at the instrument, if only for a second.

I really should practice sometime, Mikey told himself.

 

Mikey lifted the little trapdoor pocket, originally meant for keeping picks, and looked at its contents.

Four shiny, new blades.

One for each of the people he trusted. The use depended on who he felt would be the most disappointed in his relapse. He'd written Gee, Frank, Ray, and Lindsey in Sharpie, labeling each one.

And a baggie containing six more unused ones.

Mikey reached for the one marked Ray, but it didn't feel right. He stared at the four blades, trying to figure out which one was the right feel. Then it dawned on him.

He reached for the baggie and took out a fresh blade. Mikey grabbed the black Sharpie from his backpack and uncapped it, the smell hitting him for a moment before he set the new blade on his bedside table and carefully wrote Pete. He capped the marker and tossed it aside, then blew lightly on the letters.

"I'm so sorry..."

~~~~~~

When Mikey went down to lunch, he acted as normal as he could. Pete didn't seem to notice, nor did Hayley.

So far, so good, Mikey silently assessed.

His wrist were stinging slightly throughout the whole meal (sandwiches and soda), and he nearly cried when his forearm hit the table. He made a strange strangled sound instead.

"Mikey, you okay?" Pete asked. He looked at him quizically, even a bit worried.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mikey answered. He hadn't stumbled through the sentence at all; maybe it was because he'd said it so many times before. 

By the end of lunch, however, Mikey felt like his arms were on fire. He had experienced this before, but he could usually excuse himself to the bathroom to run his injuries under cool water before it got too bad. This time though, he had to give Pete and Hayley the idea that he was perfectly fine. And that meant he had to stay until Pete finished his lunch, at the very least.

Pete spent around a half hour talking to Hayley after he'd finished, and Hayley kept asking Mikey questions, resulting in Mikey wondering if it was possible that his forearms had melted. Or at least, had began to.

"Hey Mikey, let's go up to the room yeah?" Pete asked, standing up.

Finally.

"O-okay," Mikey stuttered as he rose from his seat.

Pete flashed him a stunnong smmile, with all of his teeth, and Mikey thought he was going to fall over from the butterflies in his stomach.

Except, they were probably too big to be butterflies. Maybe pterodactyls.

Pterodactyls don't make sense. They make perfect sense. Do they really? Of course they do, Mikey internally argued all the way up the stairs.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom," Pete declared once they'd entered the room.

Mikey nodded at Pete, who went into the bathroom that was attached to their room and closed the door. And Mikey tried to block out any images that were a bit... too touchy-feely.

Though he hoped they were about him.

Mikey shook his head and figured Pete was going to be a while. He was only slightly disappointed when Pete took only a minute to be in and out of the bathroom.

"Hey, Mikey?" Pete said as he plopped down on his bed.

"Yeah?"

"Is - is that - uh, what kind of guitar do you play?" Pete asked, rather sheepishly.

"Uh, it's a bass," Mikey replied, blushing a bit.

"Really?" Pete said, perking up instantly. "I, um, I play too. Bass, I play bass too."

Mikey giggled a little at Pete's awkwardness.

Pete smiled, showing all of his teeth. "Did you just giggle?"

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. The world may never know."

"Bet you I can make the world know."

"Do you really?" Mikey asked, egging Pete on.

"I bet you twenty bucks I can make you giggle again."

"Try me."

Pete got off of his bed and sat down next to Mikey. He casually brushed his fingers against Mikey's as he sat down on the foot of the bed next to him, causing him to blush furiously, almost reaching to color of Gerard's eyeshadow.

But he was determined to not giggle, no matter what Pete did. He couldn't let him win. Plus, he didn't have twenty dollars to give Pete if he did win. Which he wouldn't.

Pete was a persistent little shit, though. He spent the next hour casually brushing fingers, resting his hand on top of Mikey's, and nudging their shoulders together.

"You're a tough nut to crack, Mikey."

Mikey grinned. "I don't have twenty bucks and I'm not ready to be in debt."

Pete shrugged and smiled. "I'm going downstairs for a bit. Do you want to come?"

"No thanks," Mikey said. "I've got some reading I want to do."

"I'll be back," Pete said, trying to do The Terminator's accent.

Mikey almost let the giggle slip through his lips. Pete closed the door, a wide grin crossing his face.

\------

Mikey did read for a little bit. He tried to ignore the constant burn of his wounds. After all, he didn't know when Pete would come back. 

An hour later, and Pete still wasn't back.

I guess it's now or never, Mikey thought.

He stood up next to his bed and took off his sweatshirt. Admittedly, having to put a sweatshirt on first thing in the morningwas always a drag, but it was something Mikey had gotten used to. His Anthrax shirt was starting to smell; he had been wearing it for three days. 

I wonder if Hayley will wash it? I want to wear this thing to school at least once. And, I suppose, if I'm starting school I'd better stop slicing up my arms like I just did this morning.

Mikey sighed and looked at his arms, the dressing from his first aid kit shockingly white, even against his pale skin. He looked over at his case once again. Doing this twice in the same day was not an unknown subject to Mikey. Mikey doing this in the same day was not an unknown subject to Gerard, Frank, or Ray. Surprisingly, Lindsey had never been notified of this, though Mikey wasn't sure she was clueless to it.

For the second time that day, Mikey pulled the trapdoor open in the case.


	6. Whoever Rules Nirvana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm really sorry for how depressing that last update was! I had to do it; the story wasn't going anywhere in Mikey's view. This is Pete's PoV. Enjoy!

"I'm going upstairs Hayley!" Pete shouted out the door.

"Don't flirt with Mikey too much!" She shouted back.

Pete rolled his eyes as he headed up to the room he shared with Mikey. The door was closed, like he'd left it. He considered knocking for a second, his hand poised at the wood, then decided against it.

He regretted this the moment he opened the door.

Mikey was standing, facing the mirrored closet doors. He was staring at Pete with eyes so wide, Pete could've sworn they were the size of the moon. Pete looked over Mikey, knowing that his face was probably the same mask of shock as Mikey's.

The red cuts on Mikey's stomach were trickling blood down, like demented raindrops rolling down a window. On his forearms, there were bright red, but no longer bleeding, wounds that had obviously been done that day.

"Mikey..." Pete said in a quiet voice. "What. The. Fuck."

He annunciated each word. Pete didn't know why; he wasn't angry or anything.

"I'm sorry, Pete," Mikey said, his lower lip quivering. "I'm so sorry, I just -"

"Quit apologizing." Pete said, suddenly becoming stern, if not slightly upset.. "Just, shut up."

Mikey looked so ready to cry, and Pete knew that it would be Niagra Falls if he didn't do something to comfort the boy.

I can't comfort him yet. I have to fix those cuts.

Pete walked to Mikey as if in a trance, and grabbed his hand.

"What - what are you doing, Pete?"

"We have to get you cleaned up. No sense in letting you bleed everywhere."

"I'm sor -"

"I swear to the universe or Jesus or Kurt Cobain or whoever the fuck rules nirvana that if you apologize again, I will not hesitate to set something on fire."

Pete heard a tiny gulp from behind him. He just shook his head and turned Mikey to his bed.

"Lay down. On your back. I'll be out in a few seconds."

Pete's heart broke in two when he saw Mikey blinking back tears as he lay on the bed. He watched Mikey get situated comfortably, then went into the bathroom. He rummaged through the cabinets underneath the sink, taking notice of previously white gauze, now dyed red, shoved into the trash can. After a few more moments of rustling in the cabinets, he looked up and saw the first aid kit on the counter top. He stood slowly, and saw that there was a faint streak of pink on the bowl of the sink and on the handle of the kit.

"Mikey..." Pete whispered to himself. "Why?"

He was shaken from his thoughts as the sound of muffled crying came from his bed. Mikey's crying. Petye was sure that Mikey's older brother had never reacted this way, from the way Mikey had looked when Pete walked in. He was so afraid. Terrified, even. His brother had probably cried and held Mikey. Comforted him.

Now, it was Pete's turn to play the responsible caretaker.

"Mikey?" Pete asked, emerging from the bathroom. "I'm going to clean up your wounds, okay?"

Mikey nodded as Pete made his way over to the bed. For the first time, Pete took a good look at the scene. Mikey was laying on his back, shirtless, on Pete's bed. He had four or five really deep cuts, and seven or so more that weren't as deep. His and was covering his mouth, quieting the crying.

"Shh, Mikey. I'm going to make it better," Pete said as he opened the first aid kit.

Mikey nodded slowly, his crying gradually becoming whimpers. He faced the ceiling and closed his eyes. Pete wished that he could have been there for Mikey when this had started. He poured some disinfectant on a folded piece of gauze, the stench reminding him of the hospital he'd been in before coming to Hayley's house.

"Mikey, I'm going start cleaning your stomach. It's going to sting."

Pete's eyes teared up at the strangled noise Mikey made the moment the gauze touched his skin. Pete was cleaning the deepest cut, he assumed, by the way Mikey gripped his hands on the sheets and clenched his jaw. He finished, taping down a folded rectangle of gauze over wound. After fifteen minutes or so, Pete had finished cleaning and patching up the four deepest wounds and had cleaned. A half hour later, Mikey's stomach was properly cleaned; there wasn't a trace of blood.

Now I've got to clean his arms. I don't want those getting infected.

"Get up," Pete told Mikey. "We've got to get your arms cleaned up."

Mikey looked at Pete in confusion, his eyes red from the silent tears that had been flowing for the past half hour. "M - my arms aren't bleeding," Mikey stuttered through the sentence, sniffling.

"You've still got to take care of them, Mikey. They'll get infected if you don't. Now, come on. Head to the bathroom so I can get a better look."

Pete watched Mikey slowly get up from the bed, and followed him into the bathroom.

"Sit on the toilet," Pete said slowly. He was still in a daze. He had been since walking into the bedroom.

Mikey sat slowly, careful of his bandages. "What are you going to do Pete?" He asked, slightly fearful. His lip was quivering again.

"Mikey, don't cry. I'm not going to do anything."

"You're doing something right now."

"Now is not the time to be sassy, Mikey." Pete said as he began to dab at the marks on Mikey's left forearm.

"Ow, that stings."

"It's cleaning your wounds. Don't move so much."

"But it hurts," Mikey protested.

Pete stopped what he was doing and looked Mikey in the eyes.

"You made a stupid decision, Mikey. Stupid and irrational. So now, you've got to sit through this, okay? You and I both know that this doesn't hurt as much as what I just walked in on. And when we're finished, we are going to talk about what you were doing. And we're going to fix this. I'm going to fix you."

Mikey opened his mouth to speak, but Pete cut him off. "We'll talk after. Right now, I need you to sit still."

Mikey closed his mouth and remained still until Pete finished wrapping the gauze around his right forearm and helped him stand up. They walked to the middle of their bedroom and Pete opened the closet. He grabbed a t-shirt and threw it to Mikey. Mikey glanced at the Joy Division decal on the front as he put it on. When he looked at up, Pete was looking him in the eyes again.

"What?" Mikey asked. Pete saw it in his eyes that he knew exactly what Pete was talking about.

"Your razors, Mikey." Pete galnced at the floor, where four blades sat, sunlight glinting off of them from the window. Pete had been too lazy to put up a set of curtains, so the glass was barren. "All of them."

"Pete..." Mikey said. Pete saw the deer-in-the-headlights look come back into Mikey's eyes.

Pete walked over to where the blades were and picked them up, carefully placing each of them in his open palm. He walked back over to Mikey and held them up for him to see that each blade was showing the name written on it.

"Where are the rest, Mikey?"

Mikey pursed his lips, and tears started coming back into his eyes. Pete looked at him as if to say, well? I'm waiting. 

Pete watched Mikey slowly walk over to his bed and take the guitar case from its position against the wall. He opened it and dug around inside, then came back to Pete with a plastic bag.

"That's all of them," Mikey said as he placed the bag in Pete's hand. "What are you going to do with them?" he asked after a minute of thouhgt.

"I'm going to put them in a jar, pour water into it, and freeze them. Then, if you ever want to try this again, you'll have to wait for the water to melt."

Mikey nodded as Pete placed the blades on his bedside table. Then he walked over to Mikey, took his hand and lead him to Mikey's bed. Pete closed the case and stood it against the wall. 

"What are you doing, Pete?"

Pete smiled coyly at Mikey. "What's your last name?"

Mikey nose wrinkled in confusion.

Damn, that's adorable, Pete thought.

"Way. Mikey Way. What are you doing?"

"Would you, Mikey Way, like to cuddle with me, Pete Wentz, until dinner?"


	7. Basically The Greatest Music Taste of All Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is in Mikey's PoV. Enjoy!
> 
> ALSO THERE'S A REALLY FRIGGING HUGE TRIGGER WARNING ON THIS CHAPTER. LIKE, MASSIVE. WRITE IT IN ALL CAPS AND COLOR THAT SHIT WITH A HIGHLIGHTER.

"Mikey?" Pete asked, intertwining their hands together.

They had fallen asleep. Dinner wasn't for another hour, and after all that he'd been through, Mikey nearly died when Pete asked him to cuddle.

And when Pete put his arm around me? Oh, yes. Mikey thought, a small smile pulling at his cheeks.

"Yeah?" Mikey answered, his fingers tightening around Pete's.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why'd you do it?"

Mikey's fingers clenched tightly, squeezing Pete's hand with an unknown strength.

"Why did you start, when did you start, tell me everything."

"It's uh, a long story," Mikey said quietly. He attempted to burrow his face into Pete's chest, and Pete tightened his grip on the arm around Mikey's midsection protectively.

"We've got an hour."

Mikey curled up closer to Pete. One arm was tucked to his chest, and the other was slung across Pete's stomach. "I guess it started when I was born," Mikey began.

"You're kidding," Pete said, and Mikey could hear the grin he had.

"It quite literally happened when I was born. Or, a few months after. As soon as I could eat solid food, really. My parents skipped town and left me with Gerard when he was ten. He spent a lot of time with me, in the shitty apartment our parents left us. They left enough money to pay for six more years of rent, and a note that told Gerard to get a job by sixteen or we would be on the streets."

"What about food?"

"We had to find it ourselves. I remember Gerard stealing food from his school's cafeteria so I could eat, and I remember him telling this lady at the end of the hall, Jenna, I think her name was, that our parents went out of town once a month for two weeks just so she would give us full meals for a bit. We lived like that until Gerard turned fifteen, when the lady got him a job at the grocery store where she worked. She still gave us food for the two weeks that our parents were "out of town", and she enrolled me in school, because I was five and had to start kindergarten."

"Where'd you go after school? And during summer?" Pete asked. He was playing with Mikey's fingers now.

"I stayed in the "Employees Only" room at the grocery store. The high school Gerard was at wasn't far from the grocery store, and my elementary school happened to be on the way to the store. So he'd pick me up and take me to work with him during school, and them I'd stay all day during summer. Jenna gave me pencils and paper, but I was really into music. She let me listen to her iPod all the time. The other employees knew I was there, so they tried to be as quiet as possible when I had the music playing."

"What kind of music were you listening to?" Pete asked. He was interested in Mikey's music taste. He knew that Mikey liked Joy Division, after all, the kid had shown up in one of their shirts.

"A lot of The Smashing Pumpkins, Black Flag, stuff like that."

"So, you basically had the greatest music taste of all time and you were six."

"I guess," Mikey said sheepishly.

"Are you blushing?"

"Maybe."

That's kind of cute, Mikey. Pete thought to himself. Except it wasn't so "to himself".

"What'd you say?" Mikey questioned, trying to not giggle. He didn't know if Pete would make him pay for giggling. "Did you say my blushing was cute?"

Now it was Pete's turn to blush. "I said it was kind of cute, Mikeyway. Don't glorify yourself."

"I think my blushing is damn cute!" Mikey said in mock shock. "It's downright adorable!"

He feebly tried to hit Pete's side with the arm thrown across his stomach. He cringed and made a small hissing noise when his bandages rubbed against Pete.

"Careful, Mikeyway," Pete said as he took Mikey's hand and lifted it out of contact. "Don't want you getting hurt."

Mikey snuggled closer to Pete. "Do you want to hear the rest of my story?"

"Yeah, Mikey, I do."

Mikey took a deep breath. "Well, fast-forward six years and twelve - year - old Mikey is getting bullied for the first time. Not the usual name-calling, but actually having teachers turn a blind eye to me getting pushed up against the pole of the basketball hoop and tied up by my sweatshirt sleeves."

"How'd they achieve that?" Pete wondered aloud.

Mikey sighed a little. "It was cold, so I was wearing two sweatshirts. They yanked one off, then noticed the one underneath was too big. They grabbed the sleeves and pulled my arms back, tying the too-big arms together. Then they tied the other one around me again. I had to wriggle my way out of the jackets and get to class. Which I was late for. Earning me a detention. On top of my two other ones that day."

"Mikey Way!" Pete gasped dramatically. "How did you earn yourself three detentions in one day?"

"Well, I had to walk from my apartment to the grocery store with Gerard, tell him and Jenna to have a good day, then walk to school, which caused me to be late to my first class of the day. And then I fell asleep in my third class. And then I got tied to a basketball hoop at the end of lunch and was late to my fifth class."

"Why did you have to tell Gerard and Jenna to have a good day?"

"Because I'm not an asshole who just walks away from a woman who's been feeding me for eight years."

"I wasn't trying to make you upset," Pete said quickly. "I was just asking."

"Sorry," Mikey replied. "I just really miss Jenna. We haven't talked in a while. I haven't seen her since the first time I tried to... uh... you know..." he trailed off.

Pete nodded. "I get it Mikey. It's okay, you know? You're going to get better. And I'll be here to help you every step of the way."

"Thanks Pete."

\------

The backyard was nice, especially during dinner. Mikey and Pete were sitting on the grass, watching the sun dip beneath the hills in the distance. The sky was slowly changing from blue to cotton candy pink and saltwater taffy purple, and then to peachy orange.

"My friend Charrlotte has hair that color," Pete said randomly. He was alternating between gazing at the sky and gazing at Mikey.

But it doesn't matter, because I'm doing the same thing, Mikey thought.

"You'll meet her tomorrow," Pete informed Mikey. "She's really sarcastic and funny, and she's also really sweet. Sometimes she'll tear up when she checks her phone, but that's just her getting emotional at some of the comments on one of her stories."

"Stories?" Mikey asked.

"She writes gay fanfiction on some website. But hey, whatever makes her happy, you know?"

Mikey shrugged his shoulders. "I guess."

Pete scooted closer to Mikey, resting his hand on top of Mikey's. "Sorry to ruin the mood, but you never told me why you started. I'd like to know, if you want to tell me still."

Mikey rested is head on Pete's shoulder and sighed. "I don't know, it's really depressing."

"Mikey Way." Pete said seriously. "I'll listen to you; trust me, telling someone makes it so much better. But let me lay down first."

Pete lay down in the grass and put one arm behind his head. Mikey adjusted himself next to Pete, his head on Pete's chest. Pete put his free arm around Mikey, as if he were protecting him from all the bad in the world.

"Well, like I said earlier, the first time I got bullied was when I was twelve. One of the kids in my class, Andy, decided that, because this kid is scrawny and weak, we should pick on him. And it continued for a while. A long while. Two years, to be exact. Then, one day in eighth grade, Andy comes out as gay - he's telling everyone about his boyfriend and showing pictures on his phone. I thought everything was good, you know? And for the rest of eighth grade, it was. No more Andy, who was too busy with his life to concern himself making hell of mine."

"So, what happened?" Pete asked, choosing his wrds carefully.

"During our freshman year, I thought I was going to be left alone. Sadly, Andy's boyfriend, now a junior, had a fake ID and decided to take Andy on a date to a bar, where they saw my brother, Gerard, doing some not-so-straight grabbing with another guy on the dancefloor. The thing is, Andy pointed out that Gee was my brother and Ashley, his boyfriend informed him that Gerard was basically the club's slut and did stuff like that to any guy who would agree to go home with him. And Andy decided to inform me that he knew my brother was a manwhore. He punctuated his sentences with punches to my stomach, and kept asking me things like "why don't you go find someone who will like you, even of it's just for your body? I'm sure your brother can teach you everything." and "you're probably too skinny for even a cheapskate, but I saw you eating. Do you need my help to make you throw it back up?"

Mikey began to cry. He buried his face in Pete's chest. "Pete, it was horrible. Gerard couldn't feed me properly; I was living on vegetables and ChexMix from the grocery store! He never took money for what he did at the club! He had them buy food and he'd get it to go, and he'd bring it home for me. It didn't matter how drunk or high he got; he always brought home food. I would never refuse the meal or throw it up."

"Shh, Mikey, it's okay. It's okay. I know you'd never do anything like that."

"But I went home and did something worse!" Mikey sobbed into Pete's chest. Pete thanked the universe that Hayley and the other kids were watching a movie inside and couldn't hear Mikey. "I went home and told Gerard that I needed one of his tools for an art project and told him I'd probably keep it! I sat on my bed and slashed away! Everything that Andy told me, that any person had ever told me, all the negativity, it had blended into a white noise, so quiet it was loud, and it had made me so numb, but the blade against my arm felt so good!" 

Pete could feel the tears seeping through his shirt. "How could it have felt good, Mikey?" 

"Because I could feel, Pete," Mikeysaid quietly, his sobs ebbing. "The numbness was gone."

"Oh, Mikey," Pete said, barely a whisper. He enveloped Mikey in a massive hug. It was strong, as if Pete were trying block any bad memories that could cause Mikey any harm. Mikey pressed himself into Pete, almost trying to become a part of Pete's side, if it were possible.

"Can we go into the room?" Mikey asked. 

I want to cuddle some more. And maybe sleep in Pete's bed. It's warmer, Mikey thought.

"Yeah, totally."

They got up from their position on the grass and put their dishes in the kitchen. They climbed the stairs and Pete opened the door to the room quietly. After all, they didn't want to disturb the group fixated on the screen downstairs.

"Can I lay with you, Pete?" Mikey asked softly. "I don't want be alone." He rubbed his eye under his glasses. He could already feel the oncoming headache that crying fits gave him. He wished that Gerard were here; he'd give Mikey some Benadryl and hug him on the bed until they both fell asleep.

"Yeah, of course you can," Pete replied. He took Mikey's hand and led him to the bed. They got comfortable next to each other, and Mikey yawned. He snuggled even closer to Pete, and his breathing evened out until sleep overtook him.

\----

In the middle of the night, Mikey awoke to a squirming Pete. It almost seemed that Pete was trying to block himself from whatever was in his dream.

"Pete." Mikey shook his shoulder. "Pete, wake up."

Pete continued to move around. Mikey grabbed one of Pete's wrists and jerked it towards himself with all the strength he could muster.

"What the - what's happening?" Pete asked.

"You were fidgeting in your sleep. I din't want to be pushed off of the bed."

"Oh. I'm sorry for waking you Mikey," Pete said.

"It's okay. You should go back to sleep though. Don't we start school tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Pete said. His groggy mind was gradually waking up. "Yeah, we do. And you'll get to meet all of my frineds from freshman and sophomore year."

"Who am I going to meet, Pete? What are their names, what are they like?"

He and Pete lay down next to each other on their backs. Pete found his way to Mikey's hand and he interlocked their fingers. They stared up into the darkness that the moonless night had cast upon the room.

"You'll meet Charrlotte, and Lucy, and Lucy's girlfriend Lilly, and Mel and Izzy. And Patrick, Brendon, Joe, Ryan, Andy, Spencer, and Dallon. Maybe Alicia, but she's got Henry to look out for too."

"Henry?"

"Well, some senior last year got her pregnant, and he left, but all the girls that she hung out with dropped her because they didn't want to deal with a pregnant girl. She sort of began hanging out with us, and we supported her through everything. I guess we rubbed off on her, because she got into our music, and when our little group went to Warped Tour last summer, she came too, even though she was six months pregnant. We wrote on the baby bump in Sharpie, too. Thing like, "careful, don't hurt this little rocker" and "I've got another little mosher on the way!" We stood in line for for a few signings and people would rub the bump and tell the baby about how much fun he was going to have once he was here in person. When we met the artists, they were really nice and signed this poster we had for the baby's room, and they asked how old she was, and she told them that her birthday was that day, and that she was sixteen, and they got really defensive and asked if the boy who'd done that to her was at the show, and she said no, and they were all threatening him and telling her how they would've beaten him up if they'd known him. Later, one of the guitarists from one of the bands, it was called Six Of Spades, approached our whole group and introduced himself as Astor, and told us he was seventeen, and how he'd seen us at the show and at the sigining, and kind of started flirting with Alicia, and he gave her his number. Lilly and Lucy, who'd actually met at one of their earlier shows, confirmed his age and urged Alicia to text him."

"So, what happened? Did she text him?" Mikey was eager to hear about Alicia; she needed a better boyfriend.

"Oh yeah, she did. They've been together for a year, and Six Of Spades played Warped Tour this summer, too. We all got to go backstage for their set, and she got to hang out on the bus, and as her birthday present, Astor presented her with a promise ring, saying that he'd never leave her or Henry, and that he loved her and that she was his queen, and that he'd never find someone who was as perfect as she was. He wants to be the best dad that he can be for Henry. Then they proceeded to walk around the venue together, with Astor carrying little one year old Henry in one of those front facing baby things that you strap onto your chest. He held Alicia's hand the whole time, too."

"Is her eighteenth birthday next summer?" 

"Yeah. Astor texted me and said he was going to propose onstage to her. Two years is a long time; her parents love him though, and his parents love her. The whole band, their manager, their techs, eveyone involved in the band has met Alicia. And pretty much everyone but Alicia knows that Astor is going to propose."

"He wants to marry her?"

"Yes. He's been planning for a year now. He was going to propose at the set this year, but she's seventeen and her parents don't want her to be married until she's a legal adult. And they said that he should actually propose to her before the show, and then during, so she won't feel pressured to say yes in front of everyone if she doesn't feel ready. He's totally agreed, too. He's so exicted for it. It's like Christmas for him."

"I wish someone loved me that much," Mikey muttered quietly to himself.

"Trust me, Mikey, someone out there does."

Maybe, but his name isn't Pete Wentz and he isn't holding my hand right now. Pete is only holding my hand because it's comforting. He can't possibly love me as much as Astor loves Alicia. He's just my friend, and after what happened, he probably won't even want to be that. Nobody wants to associate with a freak like me. Not even my own brother. He sent me away. He says it's because he wants me to get better, but it's probably because he needs time away from my problems. He and Frank are living perfectly, and they're dreading the day that Lindsey drags them out for lunch with me. No one wants me.

 

"What are you thinking about, Mikey?" Pete asked.

"Oh, just school, and how I don't have anything to take notes with."

"The first day is always easy. If everything turns out the way I hope, you and I will have seats together, because your last name is a W-A and mine is a W-E, and the seats are alphabetical. I'll be behind you if we're lucky."

"If we're lucky?" 

"Yeah. The only letters in between Wentz and Way are B, C, and D, but nobody has last names like that, so the only ones we have to worry about are the people who have letters other than N after the E."

"You'll sit with me at lunch, right, Pete?"

"Of course I will, Mikey!" Pete said. "I would never leave you!"

"Okay," Mikey answered. "I'm going to find you."

"Well, Hayley pulled some strings and got you the locker to the left of mine, so you won't have to go far. Now, come on, it's pretty early in the morning. You should get some sleep."

"But -" Mikey began to protest.

"Please, Mikey? For me?" Pete asked gently.

Mikey yawned. "Okay, Pete. If you say so."

Mikey rolled onto his side, and Pete kept their fingers interlocked. As Mikey began to fall back to sleep, he swore he could hear Pete whisper: "Thank you, Mikey, for coming into my life."


	8. Satan In Business Casual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe slight trigger warning? idk, look out for yourselves

 "Mikey," Pete shook Mikey's shoulder. "Hayley says you need to be awake, like, now."

"Mmph," was Mikey's response, as he turned over and covered his face with the blankets.

"Mikey," Pete said. He sighed and stood up, putting his hands on his hips.

 **I didn't want to do this but...**  he thought.

Pete scrunched up the blankets in either hand and pulled.

"The fuck you want Gerard?" Mikey said irritably. 

 **He is obviously not a morning person** , Pete thought.

"Mikey, you gotta get ready for school."

"Sorry, Pete."

"For what?"

"I called you Gerard."

"You did," Pete said. "You're not one to be woken up, huh?"

 "Not really," Mikey said. He winced as he slowly rose from his laying postion. His wounds hadn't bled overnight, Pete noticed. That was good; that meant that Mikey hadn't cut as deep as it seemed.

"Pete?" Mikey asked. He was giving Pete an odd look.

"Huh?"

"Why're you staring out the window?"

Pete blinked and thanked the universe that was still half-asleep and clueless. He had been staring at  _Mikey_ , but Mikey didn't need to know that.

"Pete! Mikey! You've got an hour! And if you miss breakfast it's your fault!" Hayley shouted up the stairs.

"C'mon, Mikey. Get dressed and we can get some oatmeal or something."

\------

"PETE!"

The shout cut through the mass of ten or so teenagers who showed up early for junior year.

"Someone you know?" Mikey asked with a smirk.

"Shut up. You can't even get your locker open without my help," Pete retorted.

"If you weren't being a dick and had told me the combination -"

"You're here!"

An orange-haired girl bounded up to Pete and Mikey. She had eyeliner ringing her eyes, and a phone in her hands. Pete noted that her nails were painted black, as usual.

"Charr!" Pete said, a wide smile filling his face. "I didn't think you'd be here early."

Charr gigglied a bit, her red lipstick - painted lips stretching into a grin. Her appearance had never matched her bubbling personality, but if people left him alone than he was fine with whatever Charr wanted to look like.

Today, she happened to be wearing ripped skinny jeans, a wide-strapped black tank top, beaten brown combat boots, and a red plaid flannel tied at the waist.

"I didn't think you'd show up either," she said, her British accent surprising Pete after having not seen her all summer, except for Warped Tour. "Who's this?" She asked, turning towards Mikey. She smiled and took step closer to him. "What's your name, doll?"

Pete watched as Mikey's eyes seemed to open a bit wider when confronted. He backed away ever so slightly, and glanced at Pete for help.

"This is Mikey," Pete said, jumping to Mikey's rescue. "He's my new roommate."

"Oh!" Charr said. Her face had a look of pleasant surprise. "That's great! Do you like it? He's not being too flirtatious, is he?"

 **If she raises her eyebrows any higher, she's not going to have any** , Pete thought.

"He's n - not flirting too bad," Mikey stamered, his cheeks turning pink.

Charr looked like the Cheschire Cat. "Do you have a stutter, Mikey? I'm sorry, my questions can be a bit rapid-fire at times. Ah, well,  _c'est la vie_ , as they say. Perhaps you might try getting used to it? I speak like this quite often."

Pete opened his mouth to say something to Charr, but the bell rang. It's metallic  _cling-cling-cling-cling-cling_ was loud and clear in the halls. The noise shocked Pete, who had been so intent on watching Charr and Mikey's interactions that he hadn't noticed the time or the students who had arrived. 

 **I'm so glad I picked the lockers away from everyone. Nobody chooses these** , Pete thought.

" _Au reviour_!" Charr said, walking away. She slipped her phone into her pocket and her flannel over her shoulders. "I'll see you at lunch!"

Mikey just stared at her.

"C'mon, Mikey. We'll be late for first period if we don't go," Pete said. He tugged Mikey's sleeve and lead Mikey to their first class.

\------

When they entered the classroom, Pete knew right away that their teacher was new. He had a short-sleeved white button down and blue jeans. He wore red Vans and an expression that said:  _I'm straight out of college and managed to land this teaching job! I'll pretend to be the coolest teacher you have!_

 **I swear if he is some cheerful-ass, way-too-happy guy, I'm going to -** Pete's own ponderings were cut short as the teacher approached him and Mikey. Pete shifted himself ever so slightly so that he was guarding Mikey.

"Hey guys! You can sit anywhere for now, I'll figure out seating once everybody's here."

Pete scruntinized the man calling himself a teacher, but so far, he hadn't broken character once.

 **He will though** , Pete told himself.  **He'll be Satan in business casual.**

"P - Pete?" Mikey stammered in a small voice from behind. "We're just st - standing in the doorway."

Pete turned to face Mikey, whose eyes still held the deer-in-the-headlights look from his meeting with Charr. 

"C - can we sit down?"

"Of course, Mikeyway."

Pete shouldered his bag and lead Mikey towards two desks in the back left corner of the room. He sat facing forward, and Mikey sat backwards, resting his arms on Pete's desk. Pete glanced up at his classmates now entering the classroom, wondering who would cause trouble, who would try to befriend him, and who would think that he was another lost cause.

"Alright guys!" Their teacher said cheerfully. "The bell just rang, so I'm hoping that most of you aren't sitting right now. After all, I'm going to be switching up seats a little bit."

The class groaned as the ones who were sitting stood up. Pete rolled his eyes at the terrible joke and Mikey gave a shy grin, almost as if he were afraid to show any facial expression. They stood off to the side of the calssroom as their teacher began to rattle off names.

\------

"Micheal Way, sit here. Peter Wentz, behind him."

Pete grabbed his backpack from the floor and sat behind Mikey. Thankfully, they had only moved from the left back  corner of the class to the right, and Mikey was right in front of him.

 **I'm the last kid** , Pete thought.  **No one behind me and the only person I want to see in front of me.**

Pete smiled a little at the back of Mikey's head. The poor kid practically lived in his beanie, and Hayley hadn't allowed it the first day of school. He was, however wearing a black-and-white striped long-sleeve that suited him very well. Pete didn't even know where Mikey had acquired the shirt; his side of the closet was barren except for a Green Day sweatshirt.

**At least I convinced him that wearing the sweatshirt would be a bad idea. He would be melting in that thing.**

_"Mikey, this isn't New Jersey. You can't wear that thing. You'll roast."_

_"Pete, it's almost the same weather in Jersey right now. Just really rainy. And colder."_

_"Exactly, Mikey. There's no rain. And it's nearly 95 degrees Fahrenheit outside."_

_Mikey glared at Pete. Pete was sure that he would have to wrestle the jacket away from Mikey. He didn't know where he'd put it, though. Mikey was good few inches taller than he was. Maybe Hayley could hide it until winter rolled around._

_"Come on, Mikey," Pete said as he grabbed the sweatshirt from Mikey's bed. "Just put on a long-sleeve shirt or something. You'll be fine."_

_Mikey groaned. Pete crossed his arms and refused to let Mikey near the article of clothing._

A brash dinging sound shook Pete from his memory. He looked at the front of the class, where his teacher stood. The guy was holding a bell in his hand, one that would be used to signal hotel concierge or a diner's cook.

"Alright, guys, I guess I'll introduce myself to start things."

Pete internally groaned. This teacher was going to be the death of him.

"I'm Mr. Joseph, your English teacher. You can call me Mr. T, you can call me Mr. J, or you can call me Mr. Joseph. Just no inappropriate nicknames, 'kay?"

A girl in front raised her hand.

"Zoe, yes. What's your question?" Mr. Joseph pointed to her.

"What does the "T" stand for?"  
  
"Tyler," Mr. Joseph replied. "I just don't want to lose the aura of professionalism I have around here."

"Professionalism?" A boy asked. "How long have you been teaching?"

"I've been teaching since I was twenty-two. I just wasn't teaching  _here_."

" _Since_ you were twenty-two? How old are you?"

"Shut up, Alix," another boy chimed in. "You ask too many questions."

"Evan, don't tell your classmates to shut up," Mr. J jokingly scolded the kid, Evan. "And to answer your question, Alix, I'm twenty-five."

A few murmers of "ooh, he's  _young_ " and "hmmm, he's cute" rippled through the class, mainly in girls hushed tones. Pete rolled his eyes and huffed a lttle bit. Mikey's shoulders shook ever so slightly; evidently, he'd heard Pete.

For the rest of the class, Mr. J had joked around and showed the class a few videos from YouTube about grammar jokes, which, admittedly, were pretty funny. The bell had rung and Mikey told Pete that his next class was music with Mr. Dun, while Pete checked his schedule and noted that he had music before lunch. His second period, however, was history with Mr. Cerulli. 

"I'll see you at lunch then, right, Pete?" Mikey asked quietly. Pete noticed that he was controllig his stutter a little, perhaps because he was comfortable with Pete now.

"Yeah, totally. I'll see you at lunch, Mikey."

Mikey turned and blended into the mass of students heading in whatever direction they had to go. Pete swallowed the feeling in his throat, the feeling of worry that someone would hurt Mikey, and began to walk to his next class.


	9. Eye Hugs

 The amount of students that Mikey had been forced to walk with in order to arrive at Mr. Dun's music class was ridiculous. 

 **I mean, I know that my school in Belleville was small, but dear Christ. The number of people here is insane** , Mikey thought.

Finally though, after a lot of pushing and shoving, Mikey was stood at the door into the class. It was painted the gross grey-blue that matched every other door in the school, and was covered in a thin layer of dust, which just made the already unappealing color even worse.

 **It's also closed** , Mikey noted.  **Should I open it? Is it locked? What if the teacher is some old fart who likes opera?**

After much debate about whether or not the teacher would like opera, Mikey tentatively raised his fist and knocked on the door. He heard what sounded like drums stop suddenly and someone's footsteps come to the door. Mikey hoped that his teacher was moderately cool.

The door swung open to reaveal a man with fading blue hair and a wide smile.

"Hi. Sorry about that, man. Come in, have a seat. You're actually the first student to arrive; most of the kids who take this class have it after lunch," he said. He was upbeat, but not too perky or happy. "I don't even have a first period, so I just have a jam session in here. Come to think of it, I don't have any classes beside this one until after lunch. And there's the wierdly placed rest period of fifteen minutes between first and second for the starting weeks of school. The timing here is strange."

Mikey followed the man into the classrom. His eyes immediately fell onto the instruments at the back of the room, noticing the red and black bass in the corner. He dared a small smile at the instrument before sitting down in the back of the room, closest to the guitar.

"I'm Mr. Dun, your music teacher," the man said. He was at the front of the room, writing his name in block letters across the white board.  "Who are you?"

"I'm M - Mikey."

"Hey, there's no need to be scared in here,"  Mr. Dun said calmly as he turned to face Mikey. "This class will be like family. There's only twenty students in this period last I checked. And why are you sitting at the back of the room?"

"Dunno," Mikey mumbled. "Just u - used to it, I guess."

Mr. Dun walked out from behind his desk, the dry-erase marker he'd been writing with still in hand. He sat down on top of the desk next to Mikey. "Do you play?" He pointed towards the instruments.

Mikey nodded.

"Do you want to play for me?" Mr. Dun asked. "I mean, you don't have to. Just wondering."

"I'll p - play," Mikey stammered quietly. He stood up, wishing that his legs weren't so lanky. He always felt embarassed about his height, though he never knew why. He went straight to the bass guitar. He picked up the familiar instrument, feeling instantly calmer.

 **I'll play that one that Gerard sent to Ray** , Mikey silently decided.  **The one about Grandma.**

He relaxed as his fingers began to play the familiar notes that Gerard had written, envisioning his messy handwriting on the slightly crumpled pieces of lined paper. Mikey let the music fill his thoughts and he started singing the lyrics quietly, under his breath, forgetting that he was in a classroom, forgetting that his audience was his teacher.

_Long ago_

_Just like the hearse you die to get in again_

_We are_

_So far from you_

_Burning on_

_Just like the match you strike to incinerate_

_The lives of everyone you know_

_And what's the worst you take_

_From every heart you break_

_And like the blade you stain_

_Well I've been holding on tonight_

_And what's the worst that I can say?_

_Things are better if I stay_

_So long and goodnight_

_So long and goodnight_

_Came a time_

_When every star falls_

_Brought you to tears again_

_We are_

_The very hurt you sold_

_And what's the worst you take_

_From every heart you break_

_And like the blade you stain_

_Well I've been holding on tonight_

_What's the worst that I can say?_

_Things are better if I stay_

_So long and goodnight_

_So long and goodnight_

_Well if you carry on this way_

_Things are better if I stay_

_So long and goodnight_

_So long and goodnight_

_Can you_

_Hear me?_

_Are you_

_Near me?_

_Can we pretend_

_To leave and then_

_We'll meet again_

_When both our cars_

_Collide?_

_What's the worst that I can say?_

_Things are better if I stay_

_So long and goodnight_

_So long and goodnight_

_Well if you carry on this way_

_Things are better if I stay_

_So long and goodnight_

_So long and goodnight_

 Mikey took a deep breath as he finished the song. His eyes were wet, and he reached up one hand to wipe away the tears that were threatening to fall.

"Damn."

Mikey lifted his head quickly. Another kid had come into the classroom while Mikey had been lost in the music. He had a frizzy afro that reminded Mikey of Ray, except that Ray's was a lot longer than this kid's hair.

The kid must have noticed that Mikey was startled to see him, because he stood from where he'd been resting against the wall and walked over to Mikey. Mr. Dun got up and went back to his desk, taking out some papers and started making notes on something.

"Hey, I'm Joe. You play really well. I wish I could play bass," the kid said as he sat down wher Mr. Dun had been.

"Mikey," Mikey said, surprising himself when he didn't stutter. "What do you play?"

"I play guitar. I really want to start a band with my friends."

"That's cool," Mikey said. He liked the confidence that he had after playing. No stammering or tripping over words. "Who are your friends?"

Joe smiled. "Well, the three I want to start the band with are Patrick, Andy and Pete - "

"Pete?" Mikey asked. "Pete Wentz?"

"Yeah," Joe nodded. "You know him?"

"We're roommates."

Joe smiled even wider. "That's so cool, man. He must have mentioned us to you at some point, right?"

"Yeah. He said I was going to meet you guys at lunch, but I guess I'm meeting you now."

Joe smiled and showed all of his teeth. 

 **Kind of like Frank** , Mikey recalled.

"So, man, you sitting with us at lunch?" Joe asked cheerfully. He looked Mikey in the eyes, but not in a way that would make Mikey want to shy away. Joe looked welcoming, like he was hugging Mikey with his eyes. 

Mikey was about to reply, but the bell announcing that the fifteen minute free period in between first and second period was up and that the students had better get to class. Mr. Dun groaned from the front of the room, and both Mikey and Joe looked up with smirks. Mr. Dun rolled his eyes and propped the door open. The rest of the class filed in and sat down in the empty seats.

Mr. Dun introduced himself again and began talking about how awesome the school year was going to be for his class. He explained his rules, and then sent the class off to play any instrument of their choice for the remainder of the period. Mikey hadn't put the bass back in its spot so he and Joe just talked quietly and strummed their respective guitars a little until the bell rang.


	10. Zoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, there's like, a shit ton of OCs in here and I'm sorry

Pete shuffled into Mr. Cerulli's classroom, heading straight back to the seat in the back corner. He wasn't in the mood for anything and the thought of socializing for fifteen minutes in between his first two classes made him gag.  Placing his bag on the seat next to him, Pete sat and became very interested in his desk's wood pattern.

Pete just hoped that Mr. Cerulli was not another repeat of Mr. J.

Glancing up at his teacher, Pete decided that the man was not like Mr. Joseph. He had long hair, about to his shoulders, pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He was tall, skinny, and looked like he was made of skin and bones.

 **Hayley would be making him eat so much food** , Pete thought.

"Hi, uh, can I sit here?"

Pete shook himself from his thoughts, looking up at the girl that was standing next to him. She had short brown hair, glasses, and her eyeliner game was on par. Pete vaguely remembered freshman year, with his dyed hair and smudged eyeliner. 

"Oh, um, sure. Yeah," Pete said, flustered a little by the encounter.

The girl smiled. It was small, and it reminded Pete of the shy smile that Mikey had first given him when they became roommates.

 **Mikey** , Pete sighed a little content sigh.  **I hope he's doing okay. He seemed out of the loop. I'll ask him at lunch.**

"Who are you thinking about?" The girl asked.

Pete looked over at her. "Wha - ? Nobody. I'm not thinking about anyone."

"Oh, save it," the girl said. "I know that type of dreamy-eyed looking into the distance look. What's their name?"

Pete looked at his desk shyly. "Mikey," he mumbled, blushing. "His name is Mikey."

"What's your name?"

"Geez, what is this? An interrogation?" Pete asked suddenly.

"Yeah, it is," the girl replied. "I'm Zoe, by the way."

"Pete."

"Wentz? As in, the kid in my English class first period?"

"That would be me."

"Well, Pete Wentz," Zoe said. She turned in her seat so she was facing Pete now. "Have you told this Mikey how you feel?"

"No," Pete admitted. "He doesn't like me like that. We're just friends."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I'm  _pretty_ sure."

"You've got to tell him Pete. You have to. He'll never know otherwise, and neither will you. For all you know, he could be in love with you!"

Pete shyed away from the word "Love". The only love he'd ever known was tough love, and he'd never even gotten  _that_.

Zoe had stopped talking to him, so Pete checked the classroom again. More students had filed in, and the class was nearly full. The bell rang a few minutes later, and Mr. Cerulli brgan to speak.

"Hello, students. I am Mr. Cerulli, your history teacher."


	11. You Guys Are...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning! nothing too detailed, but definitely not good.

_I was a little kid, only five years old, when my mom and dad divorced, or rather, broke up, since they had never been married in the first place. I' was sad to see my dad go. He was really nice. Whenever Mom started smelling like the sticks of plants she used to light on fire with her friends, he would take me out to ice cream and the park. A lot of the time we would go to the cemetary and say hi to Grandma and Grandpa. We got them flowers a lot, and I would draw pictures for them. Even though I'd never met them, I knew that they were really nice. Dad said so._

_"Daddy? How do I know for sure that Grandma and Grandpa are really nice?" I asked one day._

_He looked at me and hugged me. He pointed at the clouds up in the sky. "You see up there, Petey? Those clouds are where Grandma and Grandpa are. They watch you every day, and make sure that you're safe. They told me that the park and ice cream trips are better than being at home."_

_"Are you sure they told you? They never answer when we're here."_

_"Oh, Petey. Just trust me on this one, okay? And remember that Grandma and Grandpa are always in the clouds for you. They don't answer, but they're there, got it?"_

_"Okay, Daddy."_

-Time Lapse: Eight Years-

_I take out an old notebook. Sure it's beaten and folded, but I love it. It's lunch time, and I'm avoiding the jerkoffs by hiding in the gym hallway. It's routine, every day. I'm just happy that the bullies are incompetant enough to not figure this out._

**It's been eight years, Dad. I don't know why I keep writing these letters to you. It's not like I'm ever going to send them to you. Anyway, it happened again today. Mom shoved me down the stairs this time. I've got a lot of bruises. But that's not what the teacher saw. She saw the bandage around my forearm. It's there because I got a C on my English homework the other day. Mom got the back of a spoon hot and burned me with it. I have to make sure that the burn doesn't get infected, so I cleaned it and wrapped it. And my science teacher saw it today while she was passing back papers. She told me to see her after class, and asked me if I need to tell her anything. I said no. I know that I should tell someone that Mom is doing these things, but I can't. I wouldn't have a place to live anymore.**

**I really want to go back to that place in the mountains that I was at when Mom was at rehab years ago. It was really cool, and the lady who ran the place was really nice. I got bounced around in foster homes, but her place was my favorite. I stayed there for two years, until the court said Mom was ready to take me home again. I don't even know how she's managed to hide the fact that she still gets high from anyone. She's popping pills left and right. Though it's better than when she's drunk. When she's drunk is when she hits me, and one time she cut me. At least when Mom is high she falls asleep and I can go out in peace.**

**I go to the cemetary a lot. After that, I go get ice cream and sit at the park. That's usually where I write these letters. This one is being written at school though. I still leave drawings for Grandma and Grandpa, you know? And I talk to them a lot.** **I saw them last month. I went to the park at night, after it closed. I called my friend Alex. He made me stay on the phone and tell him where I was. I did. He snuck out and rqan all the way to the park. He made me throw up in the grass, and Grandma and Grandpa said that they weren't prepared for me. They told that me that I wasn't allowed over just yet. I slept at Alex's place that night. His mom doesn't know. She thinks that I came over ealy that morning, like I sometimes do, through Alex's window.**

**I guess that if Grandma and Grandpa aren't ready yet, I'll stay here. Alex is really cool. I think you'd like him. He got in trouble for sneaking out, but he won't tell his mom why he did it. She thinks that he went out to see Jack Barakat, this tenth grader that Alex met at a local volunteering thing. They were totally flirting. One of the little girls even asked if they were together. Jack said no, and she told him that Alex was the girlfriend because his hair is super long, and it's pink. Jack asked her "Well, what if I want to be the girlfriend?" and the little girl said "okay. Then you're the girlfriend. But so is Lex. You guys are girlfriends."**

_I heard the bell ring, signaling the end of lunch. I was dreading going to my next class, but I had to._

**I have to go, Dad. The bell just rang. I love you.**

**\- Petey**

_A tear_ plinked  _onto the page, blurring one of the lines on the paper._

-Another Time Lapse (sorry!)-

_"Stop crying, you useless shit!" I heard my mom shriek. I couldn't help it. She was drunk again, and this time I was desparately trying to make it to the safety of my bedroom. She had already thrown several of the empty bottles at me, and I was sure that there was glass in the cuts on my palms that were currently bleeding, leaving marks on the tile of the hallway. I was crawling, attempting to avoid the shower of glass that could happen at any time if my mother deemed it fit to throw another glass in my direction._

**Just to my room,**   _I told myself._   **Make it to my room, then leave through the window. I'll go to Alex's. But what will I tell him this time? I've already used all the broken dishes excuses. I have no more.**   _I sighed._   **I'll tell him the**   **truth.**

_I finally got to my room, the blood on my hands leaving a trail that was worthy of one of the cop shows on television. My palms were stinging, meaning that my thoughts of glass in them were confirmed. I grabbed my phone and shoved it in my back pocket, knowing that I would need it more than anything else. As an afterthought, I gingerly put a sweatshirt in my backpack (after emptying all the school books out) and the few CDs in my collection. I added my crumpled notebooks, all the ones that contained letters to my dad for the past three years, since I was ten. I carefully managed to get the backpack on my shoulders and get out the window._

_When I reached Alex's house, I called him. He came to the door immediately, followed by Jack. I prayed that I hadn't inturuppted anything._

_"Pete? What's wrong?" Alex asked, worry in his eyes._

_I held out my hands, palms up, in their blood-soaked glory._

_Alex looked at my hands, then back at me. "Did you drop another dish?"_

_"I didn't drop any dishes," I said quietly. "All the times I said I did, I was lying. My mom did this. I - I had to crawl on the glass from the bottles that she threw at me."_

_Alex's jaw dropped slightly. "Pete, why didn't you tell me?"_

_"Lex, that's a dumb question," Jack butted in. "Don't ask that. Get your mom's keys. We're going to the hospital."_

-Third Time Lapse (I know these suck, but bear with me)-

_It had been a few months since the last incident.  So I decided that my dad deserved another letter._

**Hi, Dad.**

**Mom was found guilty of everything she'd ever done to me and sentenced to a prison for a while. All of the bruises, scars, and marks that she'd caused were photographed and used as evidence, along with the pill bottles and alcohol. My science teacher testified to seeing the bandages from the burn, and a few other people from the school, like the janitors, stated that they'd seen me getting hit the few times that my mom had come to pick me up from school.**

**Jack and Alex were by my side the whole time. My science teacher, Mrs. Hudson, was too. She had just gotten married before the school year started, and her husband worked for the Child Protective Services. I didn't even get bounced from foster home to foster home; I went straight to the William's Home, the place in the mountains I was telling you about the last time I wrote a letter, which was a while ago. I really like it here, except that Hayley, the woman who runs the place, had to give me my own room because I keep having nightmares. She says that I probably won't get a roommate, mostly because not a lot of kids are coming in, and the ones who do arrive are girls.**

**I start high school in a month. And I'm fourteen now. The last time I wrote you a letter, I was thirteen. I know that my birthday just passed, and I actually got a celebration for it. Hayley made a cake and everything. Only we shared it though. I don't really like the company of other kids. Hayley says I'll get used to it.**

**Oh! I got to go to the Warped Tour for the first time! Dad, it was so cool! I went with a couple of kids that I met during this freshman orientation thing at the school. Hayley bought me a ticket and everything. The kids are really cool. There's Charr, Lilly, Lucy, Patrick, Joe, and Andy. Patrick's really nice, and I like to hang out with him.**

**And one more thing: I kissed Patrick at Warped Tour. We were sitting in the grass with the others, and some stoners gave us all a few joints to share. I'd never been high before, but it felt really weird, like I was sleepy but I could take over the world. Patrick asked if he could kiss me, and then we did. I think I'm gay, Dad. I hope you don't mind. It would explain why I always watch guys when I go out with Hayley.**

_I closed the rumpled notebook and pulled the blankets around me, flicking off the light. I started school tomorrow. I should get some sleep._


	12. Peachy Keen, She'll Be Covering Your Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm pop punk trash okay

"Mikey! Darling!"

Mikey, though he figured it was useless, attempted to hide from Charr. He put his head down and covered it, but within seconds the combat boot - clad feet of his new British friend were in front of his desk. He looked up sheepishly at her.

"Hi, Charr," he mumbled.

"Dearest, don't try to hide from me in the future, alright? We have a class together and it seems a tad useless."

She plopped her books on the desk next to Mikey and sat down.

"Do you think our teacher will be a good one?" Charr asked casually.

"Dunno," Mikey mumbled. "Pete didn't mention the guy."

Charr gave Mikey a confused look. "Do you rely on Pete for everything?"

Mikey was taken aback by Charr's suddeness. "Uh, yeah..." Mikey trailed off. "He, uh, he's been helping me with some stuff." He pretended not to notice Charr's milisecond of a glance towards his wrists and fought the urge to pull his sleeves down.

"Well," Charr replied, quickly, almost flawlessly regaining her composure. "You probably shouldn't. He's a bit stupid if you ask me. But hey, to each his own. Do you know our teacher's name?" _  
_

Mikey felt like he should be taking a deep breath of air for the peach-haired girl sat next to him. He wondered briefly if she ever stopped talking and asking questions.

"I'm going to take that as a "no"," Charr mumbled, not too loud, but enough to where Mikey could hear her. She placed an earbud in her ear and opened a book, blocking Mikey out.

Mikey threw his attention up front as a guy with gelled-back hair and skin-tone plugs meant to look like his ear lobes stalked up.

"Hey, guys. I'm Mr. Mullins. I'll be your World History teacher this year. Let's make it a good one, yeah?"

The class muttered a half-assed "mm-hmm" and "yeah", with a few mentions of "sure" thrown in as well.

"Ah, c'mon. You guys can't possibly hate my class. We haven't done anything yet."

Someone raised their hand.

"Yes, hmm," Mr. Mullins checked over a sheet of paper.

"Courtney," The girl stated flatly. She had bleached hairl and a red smile. She looked like she was trying to bring back the "sexy schoolgirl" look, but had managed to fall into a ditch on her way to school. Maybe one filled with water, considering that her mascara suggested that she was attempting to imitate No Face from Spirited Away. Mikey grinned to himelf at the last one.

"Yeah. Courtney," Mr. Mullins tried her name out. "What's up?"

"Do you have gauges?" She asked, almost innocently. Mikey could swear that she was trying to ask if he was single.

"Well, I mean, the proper term is plugs, but I guess the answer is yes," Mr. Mullins said matter-of-factly.

"Does your girlfriend like them?"

 **Ah, yes. There it is.**  Mikey took note of the way she asked the question; sweetly, feigning curiousity, but really wondering if he'd have sex with her. He leaned back in his chair, anticipating one of two reactions.

"My wife and kids think they're fine. Do you have a problem with them, Ms. Harrison?"

"You have a  _wife_?" Another voice shouted from the other end of the classroom.

"And kids," Mr. Mullins assured whoever had yelled. "And since you're so good at talking in class, why don't you introdce yourself?"

"I'm Brendon, and this fine person next to me is the wonderful Austin. Do you want me to introduce everyone else as well?"

Mikey silently bet that Brendon was gay. Or at least bi. There was no way he was that talkative and forward, unless the kid was high as balls, but Mikey didn't know what Brendon's life was like.

Mr. Mullins seemed up to a challenge. "If Brendon names everyone in the room, you guys don't have to take the first quiz, okay?"

Everyone quickly agreed, Mikey included. He glanced over at Charr, wondering what her view on all of this was. Her head was low, chin propped on her chest.

 **She fell asleep** , Mikey realized.  **Maybe she just stayed up all night before school started?**

"Do I get a do-over one week in if I don't name everyone? There might be newbies or kids I've never met."

Mr. Mullins contemplated Brendon's offer. "Fine. But only one."

Brendon turned in his seat and surveyed the class, then began rattling off names. He didn't stumble over his words and his voice never faltered. Mikey sort of zoned out, until he heard an "I don't know his name, Mr. M. I've never seen him before."

"You," Brendon called out. "With the glasses. What's your name?"

Mikey swallowed and forced his stutter back. "Mikey," he said slowly.

Brendon nodded. "Cool. And Peachy Keen who's currently sleeping next to Mikey is Charolotte, but call her that and she'll be covering your murder. She likes to go by Charr."

Mr. Mullins nodded. "Mikey was the only person you didn't know, Brendon."

"I told you, I've never seen him before! You can't hold me accountable to know the name of someone I've never met."

"Fine. No quiz. You don't need a do-over, either."

Brendon mocked a look of disbelief and smirked. "That's cool, Mr. M."

They spent the rest of the class going over Mr. Mullins expectations for the class and the school year, but the bottom line was simple: Mikey liked this class.

He really did.

Sure, Mr. Dun's class was music and Joe, but Mr. Mullins' class had something else to it. An almost, dare he say it,  _homey_ vibe to it.


	13. Mikey's Not A Shakeweight

"Hey, Mikey!"

Mikey lifted his shoulders slowly and turned around to witness Pete Wentz very narrowly miss passing civilians on their way to lunch as he ran to his locker, almost faceplanting into the cool grey metal. Pete gave the locker an almost offended look before turning to Mikey.

"Mikey Way, will you go to lunch with me?"

Mikey raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware that I was going to lunch with anyone else."

Pete looked at the cement and kicked a loose rock with his toe. His right hand slipped into his pocket and he ran his left hand through his hair. "I mean, you've got all the classes, and you probably met a bunch if new people..."

**Didn't** **_I_ ** **ask** **him** **that** **? I should still mess with him, he wouldn't give me my locker combination** **...**

"There  _is_ this guy named Joe that asked me to lunch..."

"Trohman? Did he have curls? Brown? Played guitar?" Pete perked up, rapid-firing questions at a speed that would put Charr to shame. The hair on the left side of his head stuck out at odds and ends from where he'd been messing with it.

"I don't know..." Mikey smirked, trailing off in a sing-song voice.

"Mikey!" Pete grabbed Mikey's shoulders and shook him, which probably looked very comical, considering Pete was shorter than he was. Mikey tried to keep his balance and avoid toppling onto his roommate.

"Pete, Mikey isn't a shake weight."

Pete stopped and Mikey followed Pete's gaze in the direction of the familiar voice, a.k.a Joe Trohman.

 **Or** **Joe** **Fro-man** , Mikey grinned, remembering the old high school pictures of Ray hanging in the hallway by his bedroom.  **I'm** **so** **funny** **.**

"So, Mikey, you  _are_ eating lunch with us, right?" Joe asked, his eyebrows raised.

Mikey nodded his head, only half paying attention to the question.

"Sweet," Joe smiled. "I'll see you guys at the tree; I've got to get Patrick from the office."

" _Again_?" Pete asked, sounding dumbfounded. "What on earth does the kid do to get in trouble the first day of school?"

Joe shrugged. "How he managed to get sent to the office so often last year is a mystery too. I didn't think it was possible for anyone to be late as often as he was. Anyway, I'll catch up with you guys."

Joe turned and half jogged, half walked away.

"Come on, Mikey, we have to get to the tree so you can meet the others," Pete said as he grabbed Mikey's hand.

Before Mikey had chance to react, Pete was yanking him out a side gate to the front lawn of the school.

"Pete, slow -" Mikey stammered. "Pete, I - agh!" Pete was pulling too hard on his arm. Mikey's wrist felt like it was coming apart. Mikey realized that Pete probably had not thought his whole "grab-Mikey's-hand" thing through. So he did the only logical he could think of to get Pete to stop.

He sat down.

"Mikey, what the -?" Pete asked, turning around as he felt Mikey's weight drop. He wasn't sure what had happened to his giraffe of a roommate, but seeing him sitting in the middle of the walkway gently cradeling his wrist was not what he had expected.

"Oh, shit. Mikey did I -?" Pete asked as he knelt down next to Mikey. 

"It's fine, Pete. You just got excited, that's all." Mikey was a little red in the cheeks, but he couldn't help it. Pete was worried, and his forehead wrinkled in the most adorable way when he was worried.

"But I  _hurt_ you..." Another adorable furrowed brow.

**He's so damn cute.**

"Pete, you really need to listen to me, because I'm telling you the truth." Mikey grinned, using Pete as a means to push himself up from where he was sitting on the concrete.

"Mikey..." Pete said, trying not to stare as Mikey dusted the dirt from his rear. It was harder than it should have been.

Mikey settled his hands on Pete's shoulders. He noticed that Pete tensed at first, so he grinned and hoped that Pete was okay. "I mean this, I'm okay. Trust me. Let's go to lunch, yeah?"

Pete nodded and lead Mikey to the tree that his group sat with.

"Mikey!" Charr screeched. She was  _in_  the tree itself, sitting on the lowest branch with her feet dangling down. "I would hug you, but I'm a bit hung up and I don't want to leaf." She said as Pete adnd Mikey approached the group. Another girl with short blue hair groaned at the bad pun. Charr smirked.

Mikey noted that this was hardly a group. Charr, Pete, himself, and the blue-haired girl.

**And Joe and Patrick, once they show up.**

"Mikey dear, sit will you?" Char asked, her eyes signaling a spot next to Pete.

Mikey slowly sat down next to Pete and pulled a sandwich out of his backpack. He wasn't quite sure how Hayley made all the sandwiches. Pete had told him that almost every kid at the Home went to school.

 **Oh well** , Mikey decided, taking a bite of his sandwich. It was regular lunch meat, nothing special or fancy about it.

"Hey Charr, do you know where Lilly and Lucy are? Also, can I bum an apple slice?"

"Sure thing, darling," Charr answered. "And no, I don't know where those two are."

Mikey looked up to see the blue-haired girl get pelted with five or so slices of apple from a grinning Charr. She was smiling as well.

"Hey Mel, do you know where Dallon and Brendon and Spencer are?" Pete asked. He slowly rested his head on Mikey's thigh and got comfortable.

 **This is probably normal** , Mikey decided. 

The blue-haired girl,  **Mel** , Mikey corrected himself, shook her head. "They told me they were going off-campus for lunch."

"We're not allowed to go off-campus," Pete said, running his hand through his hair. He didn't sound all that surprised.

"Do you think that those three care?" Mel asked, raising her eybrows and taking a bite of one of her stolen apples.

Pete awkwardly shook his head.

"What about Andy and Joe and Patrick?" Charr supplied. The tree branched wavered as Charr adjusted her seating.

"Joe had to go retrieve Patrick from the office, but I don't know about Andy," Pete answered.

"Don't know what about Andy?"

Mikey turned to an unfamiliar voice behind him. An average size boy stood behind him, hair short and gelled, and the beginning of a tattoo sleeve peeking out from his shirt sleeve.

Pete was up in a flash. "Dude, Andy! You got a haircut, man!"

Andy smiled and let Pete hug him. "Yeah, my mom didn't much like the long hair. Said I looked "scraggly". But that doesn't matter, because she let me get my sleeve started!"

"Really?" Charr asked. She hopped down from the tree, sticking the landing. "Let me see!"

Andy rolled up his shirt sleeve, revealing the whole tattoo underneath. Mikey couldn't tell what the image was exactly, but he knew that it would be a cool sleeve when it was finished.

"Sweet," Charr complemented.

"Thanks. Oh, hey. Who's this?"

Andy slung his backpack off and sat down next to Mikey. "What's up? I'm Andy."

Mikey sheepishly grinned. "I-I'm Mikey. Pete's fr-friend."

 **That** ** _fucking_** **stutter** , Mikey repremanded himself.

"Cool. Nice to meet you." Andy opened his bag and pulled out a portable bowl, opening it to reveal a salad.

"What do you have for lunch today, Andy?" Pete said, sitting down next to Mikey's newfound acquaintance. 

"Chickpea salad. And I think maybe some carrots. I don't remember what I threw in this morning. I was tired."

"That's cool." Pete nodded his head and took a bite of his sandwich.

The group that had accumulated - Mikey, Pete, Charr, Andy, and Mel - sat in silence for a little longer until another group of three boys approached.

"Hey! You're the new kid from Mr.  Mullins' class!"

Mikey's head jolted up at the new yet oddly familiar voice.

A boy with short brown hair and glasses was smiling at Mikey with a wide yet kind grin.

 **At** **least** **he's** **not** **attempting** **to** **impersonate** **the** **Joker** , Mikey observed.  **Heath** **Ledger** **would** **be** **turning** **in** **his** **grave.**  
  


"I'm Brendon," the kid said as he wedged himself between Pete and Andy. "And those two dummmies who aren't sitting are Dallon and Spencer."

"I thought we were getting lunch," the taller of the two still standing. He crossed his arms across his chest, the houndstooth-checked pattern on his collared shirt making his arms and chest blend together. He pouted, sticking his lower lip out.

"Well, I don't want to get caught by the campus security or police officers on the first day," Brendon stated matter-of-factly. "Is that too much to ask?"

"It's not like they don't expect that you're going to try  _something_ sooner or later," the other kid said, probably putting more emphasis on "something" than he needed to.

Brendon hesitated, for a split second. And then regained his composure. "Shut up, Spencer." He grinned.

 **A catch of his voice in the back of his throat, the hitch of his breath, the miniscule swallow before putting on the mask.**  Mikey counted the signs in his head.  **The last touch-up before putting on the facade. This kid's not alright.**

"Hey, Mikes, you okay?" 

"Hmmmm?" Mikey intelligently answered Pete's question.

Pete adjusted himself on Mikey's thigh so he was grinning up at the mousey-haired boy. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why?" Mikey tilted his head to one side.

"You kind of sighed. I thought you might be feeling, I don't know,  _bad_." Pete's eyebrows scrunched together in worry.

"No, no. I'm alright," Mikey assured him.

Pete seemed appeased by the fact that Mikey was okay, and returned to conversing with his friends. Joe and another kid, who Mikey assumed was Patrick by the fact that he was grimacing and complaining about being late by three minutes and having a teacher that was too strict.

"Ah, shut up, Patrick," Brendon laughed a little too loudly. "You did the same thing last year. Face it, you're never gonna make it to class on time."

Patrick groaned and plopped himself in the grass. Mel threw an apple his way, and Patrick caught it, albeit almost missing the fruit completely. Dallon and Spencer had sat on either side of Brendon, sandwiching the racous teenager. Mikey wondered if there was anyone else that would come into the group, or if the nine people sitting in a circle around him were all that this lunch group consisted of. His questions were answered when two more girls appeared.

"Hey you nerds!" One of the girls yelled. She had a thick accent (though Mikey couldn't place it) and what looked like short brownish-red hair, but Mikey had just gotten a new prescription like, a week before he moved to Williams House and he was still getting used to it.

**Thank god for Lindsey or I might have never seen properly.**

"Hey, Mel, Lucy and Lilly are here!" Charr shouted from the tree.

"Thank you, Charr," Mel answered, rolling her eyes. 

The two girls came up to the group and they were all smiles, one in black, and the other wearing a flower crown. 

"Hey, all," the other girl said sweetly. She shared the accent that her friend had, but in a much quieter, tame manner.

"Hello, Lilly," Andy grinned. Flower Crown directed her smile towards the boy. 'And you too, Lucy." The other girl smied as well and sat down, pulling Lilly onto her lap.

"Hey, we were going to sit there!" Dallon mock-shouted. 

"Well, you didn't, suck it up," Lucy shot back before nuzzling in between Lilly's shoulder blades. Lilly giggled and squirmed in Lucy's lap, but made no move to get away.

Dallon rolled his eyes and stayed firmly planted next to Brendon. Mikey was about to ask Pete if this was actually the last of the group, but he was stopped by the bell brashly ringing, even as far as the front lawn where they were sat.

The next minute or so consisted of the eleven teenagers gathering their things and throwing food in and around the trash can before hugging and heading off in he direction of their classes. MIkey reckoned that he hadn't been hugged by almost anyone in a while. Pete was okay with it though, so Mikey relaxed and allowed himself to hug his newfound friends back.

\--

The rest of the day passed in the awkwardly peaceful way that school does after lunch. The first day was always easier, and it wasn't until the last ten minutes of his sixth period did the anticipation of class to end really set in. His knee bounced up and down, and thoughts of the rush to his locker after the final bell signaled the end of the school day filled his head. 

**I definitely want to be the first out of the room. This class is lame anyway. Math class last. What rotten luck.**

At least it turned out that Dallon was in this class. And they had free seating, so Mikey grabbed a seat next to the boy in a collared shirt.

" _Mikey_." Dallon's sharp whisper cut through his thoughts. "You need to stop twitching. People are going to think you're on drugs or something."

"But I can't help it," Mikey whispered back. "It's not that easy to just stop."

"You took pills, didn't you?" Dallon asked.

"What?"

Dallon subtly moved in his seat to angle his body towards MIkey. "You were a pill-popper, and you did weed, right? But mainly pills, and you probably snorted them sometimes. You usually just swallowed them though, chased them down with some sort of liquor blend." His eye remained facing the teacher, who was rambling about how simple math was.

"How do you know that?" Mikey said defensively, maybe a little too quickly.

Dallon smirked oblongly. "My brother was one. A pill-popper, I mean. He used to twitch like that after he stopped going to parties and began taking himself seriously. He didn't know that he was going through withdrawls from the pills and stuff though. He's okay now. Sober and in college, one of the best kids in his class."

"I didn't like my old family that much. They treated me like shit. I liked them, the pills. Escape from the real world for a bit, I guess." Mikey cast his eyes down to the desk and started counting the pock marks from pencils over the years.

"Yeah. I'm not perfect. I tried them with my brother. He wouldn't take me to parties though. Getting arrested for having a thirteen year old at a party with seniors in high school wasn't on his agenda." Dallon matched Mikey and looked down at his desk. "I liked the pop-and-chug method," he said quietly.

"Why'd you stop?" Mikey asked. "I mean, I know that's a crappy question, but I stopped because I was forced to move here."

"My brother and I video chat. He made me promise to stop, even though he wasn't here with me. He told me that he goes to AA meetings on campus and lives in the dorms monitered by the AA meeting head. We decided that being clean together was easier than watching the other spiral into addiction. The only difference is that he follows the whole "find God" part of the AA pledge."

"You don't?" Mikey raised his eyebrows at Dallon. Frank was athiest, and Gerard believed in God. Mikey grew up believing in God, but he didn't follow the "don't be gay" thing correctly at all. Gerard was a very gay Christian man.

"You do?" Dallon replied.

"Well,  _yeah._ My brother is believes in God. I kind of grew up with Jesus loving me, even if I much preferred dating a guy. I guess it's just nice to know that I've got someone covering for me."

Dallon shrugged his shoulders. " To each his own, I guess."

"Mr. Weekes, are you paying attention?"

Dallon casually looked up to their math teacher. "I would love to say yes, but thankfully, that is not the case."

"Do you want a detention the first day of school?" The teacher asked.

"No, sir. I do not. My parents expect me home so that I can clean up before our guests come over tonight. I was apparently unaware that we were having a dinner party in my bedroom."

Their math teacher squinted at Dallon. "Cut down on that sass, boy. If I were raising you, you would've been sent to a military school a long while ago.

"I'm sorry for your children, sir," Dallon answered, suppressing a smirk. He grabbed his bag and bolting out the door as the final bell rang, ending the school day and the snark. Mikey shouldered his bag and shuffled hurriedly out the door before he could get caught in the mad rush of students heading to their respective end-of-day ports.

\--

Hayley pulled up in the SUV that she used to bring Mikey and Pete to school. It was shiny black from being washed every weekend, and  the interior was comfy. Mikey and Pete got in the back and she drove them home.

"Do you guys have home work?" Hayley inquired.

"It's the first day of school!" Pete exclaimed.

Hayley shrugged from the frint seat. "You were still turning in homework from summer school last week, Wentz."

Pete grinned sheepishly. "I got it done, didn't I?"

"Pete, you barely made it into the Algebra 2 class."

"But I got in, so there's no need to worry."

"How about you, Mikey?" Hayley asked as she stopped at a red light. "Any homework?"

"Nope," Mikey answered.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Hayley shook her head. "I didn't realize that I was signing up for twice the teenage snark when Lindsey told me that you could be Pete's roommate."

MIkey and Pete just looked at each other and shrugged.

\- Tiny Time Lapse -

It was late, by proper school night standards. By anyone's standards, really. Mikey reckoned that going to bed at midnight on a Monday night was not normal.

"Mikey, maybe we should get to sleep," Pete said. "It's really late, and frankly, being late to school is not my idea of a good morning."

"Okay," Mikey sighed. He dog-eared his page and closed his book, turning over under his blankets. He then remembered that he was Mikey Way,and Mikey Way wears glasses, and he couldn't possibly sleep in glasses. So he removed them and returned to curling under his sheets. Pete clicked out the light.

"I really liked lunch today, Pete."

And then, sleep.


	14. Half Asleep and Moderately Presentable

Brendon Urie did not fancy himself a person with issues. He fancied himself quite the opposite, actually. Brendon Urie was under the impression that he was a very normal seventeen year old with very dark thoughts. Thoughts that enjoyed the comfort of Brendon's bed at night, like a friend that asked to stay since they were too high to walk, let alone drive a two-ton mass of metal on wheels.

And of course, since Brendon Urie was an asshole, but not entirely a dick, he let them stay.

And tonight was no exception. He lay in curled up in the fetal position, a pillow pressed around his ears, as if he could prevent the thoughts from worming into his brain and seeping into his very existence.

"I'm not a suicide kid, I'm not a suicide kid, I'm not a suicide kid," Brendon chanted to himself. "I won't do it. I can get through this."

Brendon felt the hot tears begin to stream from his eyes and into the corner of pillow under him. His mom and dad. Oh, god, he missed them. So, so much. He hated his aunt's house. He hated his aunt, he hated her ability to make him feel so menial, and he hated her power to make him hate himself.

"I'm worth everything," he whispered hoarsely, his throat raw from tears. "I am useful."

But in true Brendon fashion, he had to have something to reassure him of what he was saying, and frankly, his brain was not the most helpful at even that. He tossed the blankets aside and stumbled to his closet, half asleep and half naked from the waist up. Not that his boxers counted as actual clothes, anyhow. He tried to make as little noise as possible as he fumbled for a pair of jeans and a clean shirt to make his appearance at least moderately presentable, even if it were only for the time being. Once he got his hands on some liquor, he was a goner; Brendon Urie drank to find a good fuck, and that was the end. Waking up in a stranger's bed was nothing new, and it was a hell of a lot better than waking up to his aunt's caterwauling and abuse.

As he zipped his hoodie on the sidewalk in the light of a street lamp, he contemplated where to get his poison. McCraken's Corner Store was always a good choice; Bert made you overpay for the booze but gave free cigarettes, and he usually slipped some form of marijuana in Brendon's possession. Another was the gas station owned by the Ashbys, worked most often by their son Alan, who gave free cigarettes as well, and free booze if you bought one pack. It was a wonder they didn't go out of business, but then again, when you're the only gas station in the godforsaken town and the only gas station for miles during tourist season, you get a lot of cash.

Brendon started walking, deciding that he'd head to the Ashbys' place tonight. Free beer and cigarettes was better bet, and he realized that he probably didn't have enough money to pay Bert thirty-five dollars for ten dollars' worth of alcohol. He knew the back of his hand like he knew this stupid place; boring, and in dire need of something more, and arrived at the gas station in a few minutes. Alan nodded in Brendon's direction as the teenager headed back toward the beer. He selected two packs of the cigarettes that he knew Brendon always chose, and rang him up for one six-pack of beer. Brendon appeared at the counter with a six-pack of beer, some "martini-in-a-can" things, and grabbed three or so mini-containers of vodka from the glass bowl beside the cash register. Alan bagged the booze and Brendon paid, and no words were spoken. Not on late nights, when Brendon just wanted to lose himself.

\--

Brendon decided that he liked the park. It was open and grassy, and one curving path of concrete wound through the middle, taking joggers and elderly couples on a tour of the brown lake and lily pads. Brendon had never been on the concrete, or at least, he didn't  _think_ so. Taking a walk would be fun, he contemplated. He wasn't drunk driving, and nobody was out and about at whatever time it was. Hell, maybe someone who was around would take pity on the intoxicated teenager and bring him into at least a house so he wouldn't accidentally trip and blow up the country. All of these things Brendon thought as he concentrated on holding the plastic bag and taking wobbly steps on the path, which seemed to be moving. He wasn't aware that they'd upgraded the park to a fancy-shmancy airport moving sidewalk. Maybe  _that's_ where all the tax money was going.

"I have school tomorrow," Brendon giggled. Then he shook his head. School was a trap, a bear trap in the middle of a beautiful forest, and it made the forest horrible. But he didn't plan on becoming a bum, and school would give him enough facts to prevent that from happening, even if he had to sift through a lot of bullshit to retrieve the worthwhile information. Brendon yawned, and continued walking.

\--

"C'mon, wake up," a gentle voice said quietly.

Brendon groaned at the pounding headache drilling through his brain and shielded his eyes against the too-bright early sunlight. His body ached and he was cold, meaning he'd spent the night on a park bench and was now coated in morning dew. He buried his face in the leg of the person jostling his shoulder for a moment before coming to grips with reality.

"Holy shit!" Brendon yelped as he shot up and scrambled away from the unknown person on the bench, resulting in him falling off the seat and his stomach becoming riled up in the process. He turned over on all fours and haphazardly crawled a few feet away before throwing up the contents of his stomach, coughing raggedly from the burn of the alcohol in his throat.

"Hey, it's gonna be okay." Brendon felt a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, gently rubbing circles like his mom used to. Tears pricked at his eyes.

"You're going to be alright," the soft voice said soothingly, even as Brendon felt the next wave of nausea hit him and roll his stomach. "Get it all out, and you're good."

Brendon finished puking up nothing but rancid smelling alcohol, and he rolled over onto his back, feeling tears well up and drip over his face like gasoline, setting his cheeks on fire.

"She was right," Brendon cried. "I am worthless. I am useless. Everything she said was all right."

"Who said that?" The voice asked. Brendon assumed it was male from the awkwardness of the voice.

"M-my aunt," Brendon choked out, his voice laden with tears and hangover.

"Well, she's wrong."

"Who are you to say she's wrong? I know that she's right; she always is." Brendon gingerly propped himself up to get a clear view of the person who had decided that he was worthwhile. A boy sat cross-legged in front of him on the concrete, hands folded in his lap and eyebrows furrowed in worry. He looked young, eighteen or nineteen perhaps, with brown hair in his face and a pale blue collared button up underneath a leather jacket and normal blue jeans. Brendon was fairly certain that he did not look as good as the boy across from him. He didn't even remember if he'd put his jeans on properly.

"My name is Ryan, by the way. And I think your aunt is wrong." He looked Brendon in the eyes, as if he were trying to imprint his opinion on Brendon's mind. He only succeeded in imprinting his pretty face.

"I don't even know who's right about anything anymore," Brendon seemed to admit to both himself and Ryan. "The only time I understand is when there's something poisoning my body." Brendon carefully sat up, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his forehead on them.

"But is understanding really worth shitty beer and cigarettes?" Ryan got up and sat next to Brendon.

"For me? Yeah," Brendon said, not sure if Ryan was being rhetorical or not. He really wanted to know if Ryan would at least take him to his house. He needed clean clothes and a shower.

"You know, I thought that too, when I was still in school. What grade are you in, anyway?" Ryan tilted his head in Brendon's direction.

"How did you guess that I'm still in school?" Brendon asked, dumbfounded. Or maybe it was the hangover talking. He wasn't too sure.

"You believe that understanding comes from shitty beer and cigarettes. If that's not a high school student, I don't know what is," Ryan smirked.

"Well, what do  _you_ believe that understanding comes from?" Brendon pouted, sticking his bottom lip out at Ryan.

Ryan just shook his head mystically and bit his lower lip. Brendon decided that this Ryan looked pretty damn adorable when he did that. "Maybe I'll tell you later. Do you need a ride to school?"

"Nah," Brendon said, punctuating the phrase by spitting in the grass. "It's only the second day. They won't miss me. I would love something to make this stupid hangover leave though."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Only the second day and you're already skipping out," he tutted. "You're what, seventeen? Why aren't you trying to advance your knowledge of the rat maze that we call society?"

"Can you take me home?" Brendon asked suddenly.

"What?" Ryan replied, one eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Do you have a car? Can you take me home? Will you take me home?" Brendon had quite suddenly lost his filter; perhaps it was Ryan, or the fact that he'd worked out Brendon's entire drunkeness in one sitting, but Brendon really wanted to be anywhere but the park.

"Slow down," was all Ryan said calmly. "Think through what you're asking."

"I, Brendon, am asking you, Ryan, to take me to your house so I don't have to go home, or to school, whilst hungover."

Ryan decided that, since he was the only person in the park, and Brendon seemed traumatized by his actual home, was welcome in his.

"Alright."

"Really?" Brendon asked, his eyes holding thousands of thanks, ready to fly away like paper cranes.

"Yes, really," Ryan answered. "Come on, my car is this way. And leave the alcohol; you need water."

\--

"I want coffee," Brendon stated randomly.

They were in Ryan's car, and Ryan was contemplating as to why he'd taken the teenager home. Perhaps he took pity on him, but how could you not, with Brendon being so cute?

"I am a twenty year old, an  _adult_ , taking you, Brendon, a seventeen year old, to my house," Ryan pointed out. "If I take you to coffee, people are going to think that something is up."

"Let 'em," Brendon grumbled. He folded his arms across his chest and turned to the window as best he could, what with a seatbelt strapped across his torso.

Ryan rolled his eyes at the angsty teenager, remembering how he used to be. "I have coffee at my house." He turned into a neighborhood area lined with small houses and drove to the end, pulling into the driveway of a not-too-shabby one story. "Come on, out of the car and into the house."

Ryan climbed out of the car and Brendon followed in close succession to the front door. Ryan unlocked it and pushed it open, indicating that Brendon was to go inside first. The seventeen year old warily made his way inside of the house, and Ryan followed.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Ryan shrugged. "I know it's not much, but it's home."

Brendon cautiously sat on Ryan's couch. It was the color of coffee with creamer in it, which reminded Brendon that he wanted caffeine, and lots of it.

"Coffee?" He asked, suddenly noticing that Ryan was  _not_ in the living room. "Ryan?" The worry was making his headache pummel his brain even harder than before.

Ryan heard Brendon from the kitchen. He also heard the edge of worry and maybe even a hint of fear that the hungover teenager's voice carried. He continued to grab a bottle of painkillers from a cabinet above his microwave and unscrew it, pouring two into his hand.

"Don't be gone." Ryan stopped what he was doing when the almost silent whisper echoed through the nearly empty house. He paused, and then proceeded to fill a glass with water and walk out from the kitchen, a comforting grin on his lips as he approached his couch, and Brendon.

"Hey, here are the painkillers and some water," he said softly as he transferred the pills into Brendon's clammy hand and set the glass of water on the table. Brendon was staring blankly at what appeared to be the television set across the coffee table. Ryan noticed the beginning of more tears and wondered what had made this boy so susceptible to kindness, even if it were a stranger offering to take him home. Even drunk, Ryan would have never agreed to what Brendon had just done.

"Hey, Brendon, are you in there?" Ryan carefully placed his hand on Brendon's shoulder and the teenager jolted out of his trance.

"Huh? I, ah, I wasn't paying attention," Brendon covered for himself quickly, the familiar phrase like a warm hug.

"You've got painkillers in your hand and water on the table. I'm going into the kitchen to make us some coffee. Only the kitchen; I'll be out as soon as it sets to boil, okay?" Ryan gauged Brendon's reaction, and he seemed visibly calmer now that he knew where Ryan was going to be.

"Take those pills," Ryan told Brendon. He stayed in the couch, at Brendon's side and watched as he took them and swallowed the water. After ensuring that Brendon was set for smooth sailing in the headache department, he got up from the cushion and made his way back into the kitchen, making the coffee, and promptly heading to the living room once again, where he saw Brendon curled up, head resting on the arm of the couch and his mouth hanging slightly open as he slept. Ryan felt the right side of his lips turn up in a half grin, half smirk and he grabbed a blanket and covered up the seventeen year old.

\--

The first thing Brendon realized when he woke up was that his head didn't feel like construction workers were drilling into his brain. The second was that he was in fact, not at his aunt's hellhole, but in a moderately cozy house on a considerably comfortable couch.

"Awake, Sleeping Beauty?"

Brendon looked to where the voice came from, remembering where he was and who he was with like a punch in the face. Ryan had a mug in his hands and a smirk on his face as he leaned against the doorframe.

"What time is it?" Brendon asked. Strangely, he didn't feel any worry at all about being in the house of someone he'd just met that day.

"About four in the afternoon. Why?" Ryan stepped away from his perch at the frame and sat down next to Brendon. His jacket was gone, and he was wearing a Wolverine t-shirt.

"Damn, I've been asleep  _forever_." Brendon said in wonder.

"Only about seven hours." Ryan told him. "So, uh, abusive aunt?" He tested the water.

"How'd you know?" Brendon answered, perhaps too quickly. He felt the rush of blood on his cheeks, the only part of him that he couldn't control. He tugged the blanket closer to his body.

"My dad once told me that, if you keep your mouth open, all the secrets that you keep might get spoken while you sleep," Ryan said, letting the tidbit of information hang in the air, supported by the tension between he and Brendon.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Brendon inquired, his muscles unclenching from their defensive positions.

"It means that you can tell a lot about a person from how they sleep. For example, you sleep with the blanket pulled up to your chin, nestled as far back as possible, and curled up as tight as possible. You're protecting yourself, blocking your body from danger. And you said that you didn't want to go home to your aunt, and you said that she told you that you were useless."

Brendon laid his head on Ryan's shoulder. "I am useless. And worthless. I don't even know why you agreed to take me to your house. You could have just left me."

Ryan sighed. "You were hungover and puked as soon as you woke up. And you were crying about your aunt. And I bet that if I'd left you, you would still be drinking that beer and searching for the secrets of to universe in the butt of a cigarette. That, and one other thing."

"What else? I was a pathetic, partially drunk kid in a local park and you took pity on me. What else could you possibly have?"

"You're kind of cute," Ryan mumbled into his coffee, stopping Brendon in his rambling.

Brendon and Ryan sat in silence, tension that had previously relaxed building on itself like Lego blocks. "Oh," was all Brendon could muster. "Oh." He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor.

"You can leave, if you want," Ryan offered. "I understand that I'm the adult here, and it's pretty creepy that I called you cute, and-"

"I think that you're cute too."

Now it was Ryan's turn to stop like a deer with a hunter's arrow pointed between his eyes. "You what?"

"Aw, you're cute when you're confused." Brendon bit back a smile and pursed his lips as a blush climbed Ryan's cheeks and made camp on the bridge of his nose.

"No, I'm not," Ryan argued, far too aware of the pink on his cheekbones.

"I think you're  _lying_ ," Brendon sang as he tapped his pointer finger on the tip of Ryan's nose. His smirk played across not only his lips, but lit up his eyes as well, so that they glittered from an unknown source of internal light. He'd gotten on his knees and crawled close enough to achieve the earlier nose boop.

"And what if I am?" Ryan countered, batting Brendon's hand away.

"Then you have to pay for your breaking of the "no lying" rule," Brendon said, only semi-seriously.

"What does it cost?" Ryan asked, biting his lower lip and setting his coffee on the table.

Brendon fell back on his haunches and pressed his lips together in concentration. His eyes darted around the room, taking into consideration his surroundings. "A shower and TV. And clothes that don't smell like a park bench and beer."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "The bathroom is down the hall, on the right. Everything's in there, so just, uh, leave your clothes outside the door and I'll leave some clean ones."

Brendon gave Ryan a small smile of gratitude before tossing the blanket aside and heading to the bathroom. All was quiet for a few minutes until Ryan heard the bathroom door open once again. Brendon stood halfway into the hallway. "Hey, uh, Ryan? How do you work the shower?" He called down innocently.

Ryan smiled a little and headed for the bathroom, wondering just how he'd suddenly become affectionate of the seventeen year old, and tried to push any thoughts that weren't too appropriate for an adult to think of a minor to the back of his head.

"My hero," Brendon grinned, a hint of sarcasm wrapped around the praise as Ryan showed him how to turn the shower on and control the temperature. Ryan rolled his eyes, something he hadn't done this often in a day since he was in school. But maybe, being with a teenager made you give into teenage pleasures, and that included rolling your eyes an ungodly amount of times. He left Brendon to shower, closing the door and going into his bedroom to find a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that Brendon could wear.

"We're about the same size," Ryan mumbled to himself. "I'm just a little taller..." He dug out a pair of dark grey sweatpants and looked them up and down, his tongue poking through his lips in concentration. Would they be too big? They would probably drag on the ground a little. Ryan folded the pants neatly by to his left and set about finding a shirt, settling on a fading black one with a blurry image of some waves, palm trees, and a beach. Ryan didn't remember where he'd gotten the shirt, but it was clean and smelled like his detergent rather than alcohol, as Brendon had requested. He folded it on top of the sweats and carried the clean clothes to the bathroom door, setting them down on the cream carpeting and picked up the pile of a wrinkled white shirt, crumpled jeans, and a black hoodie. They did smell strongly of alcohol and cigarette smoke, the scent mixing and twining up Ryan's nose, unlocking the memories of high school parties and going home with guys he barely knew beyond the fact that they were gay and they could get even more alcohol. He closed his eyes and shook his head, banishing the images and locking them in a little box, which he shoved to the darkest corner of his mind. Ryan had other things on his mind right now, like getting Brendon's clothes in the wash and whether or not he had any good DVDs that the two of them could watch.

\--

Half an hour later, Ryan was digging through the wicker basket next to the television, where he kept his collection of movies and video games. He had a growing stack of films on his left and a mental note to organize his electronics on his mind.

"To what do I owe this honor?"

Ryan sat back on his haunches and looked behind him at Brendon, who was sitting on the arm of the coffee colored couch, grinning at the twenty year old.

"What honor would that be?" Ryan asked as he got up from his place in the carpet and felt the blood rush back to his legs, filling them with fuzzy pinpricks. He joined Brendon on the arm of the couch.

"You have a very nice ass," Brendon commented, his grin showing no sign of leaving.

"Should you be using such crass language when talking to adults?" Ryan matched Brendon's grin and raised his eyebrows.

"Are you calling yourself old?" Brendon countered.

"I'm calling you young," Ryan stated matter of factly. "By law, you're still a kid."

"Aw, don't go into the legality of this. It makes this whole relationship a lot less fun." Brendon leaned his head on Ryan's shoulder and sighed deeply, the sadness palpable from his deep breath.

"Relationship?" Ryan murmured, wiggling Brendon's head off of his shoulder. "Is that what this is?"

"It's what I want it to be," Brendon almost whispered, trying to lean on Ryan again. "Let's make this a relationship," Brendon said, lifting his head and looking Ryan in the eyes. "We could make it happen."

Ryan swallowed. "Brendon, I could get arrested, I'd have to leave town if anyone found out-"

"So don't tell anyone!" Brendon said, overdramatizing the situation.

"If it were that easy, it could happen. Look, I'm going to sound like an ass here, but you're still young, and not everything is as easy as pinky-promising that neither of us will tell anyone."

Ryan watched Brendon's reaction, the change of mood frighteningly quick. Brendon's cheeks flushed almost cherry red and any trace of hope his eyes had once held was gone. "You're just like the rest of them." Brendon shook his head. "You think that I'm just a stupid kid." Brendon got up and made a beeline for the front door.

Ryan followed, grabbing Brendon's wrist as the teenager put his hand on the knob.

"Brendon-"

"No. Save it for some other drunk teenager who says you're attractive. I'm not some dumbass kid-" Brendon was on a rampage internally. He was upset that his parents were missing. He was upset that his aunt would surely hit him when he got home, both for being late and and for wearing someone else's clothes. He was upset that Ryan, someone he was beginning to trust, had told him he wouldn't understand.

"I never said that you were."

Brendon loosened his grip on the doorknob. He couldn't bring himself to look Ryan in the eyes. "You implied it. And that's always worse." He felt Ryan's light grip loosen.

"You misunderstood me. I really wish the world worked the way you see it, but it doesn't. I can't do anything until you're eighteen and a legal adult. If you'll at least be my friend until then." Ryan dropped Brendon's wrist and Brendon's arm fell to his side.

"I work at the comic store on Seventh. From eleven until closing. You could come by after school."

Brendon took a deep breath. "I'll have to think about it."

And with that, he was gone, and it left Ryan to stare at his open front door and realize that he still had Brendon's clothes.

\--

Pete wasn't quite sure how he and Mikey had ended up being allowed to take Hayley's SUV and drive to the town's only park at six in the evening. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Pete had told her it was an emergency based off of a text from Brendon. Or perhaps the fact that Mikey wanted to go along and not stay inside all evening. Either way, they were now sitting with Brendon and Charr on a blue and red playground structure clearly meant for small children and not teenagers with hormone problems.

"Well, what do  _you_ want?" Charr asked Brendon for possibly the hundredth time. She was sitting atop the monkey bars in a Misfits sweater with the sleeves rolled up, chewing a wad of gum. She blew a bubble and resumed chewing.

"I don't  _know_ ," Brendon groaned. He put his head in his hands.

"Well, I say go for it," Charr said, punctuating her idea with another bubble.

"But we only just met, and I was half-drunk or half-asleep when we talked, and we've already had an argument, and, and-"

"Brendon," Mikey said, quietly but powerfully. "You just need to relax and stop over processing your predicament. Take a deep breath and set a steady pace for yourself to think at.  _Then_ tell us what you think."

Brendon did take a deep breath, folding his hands in his lap. "I was hungover, and Ryan woke me up in the park. He took me to his house and let me sleep on his couch and gave me meds for the headache. He let me take a shower, and that's how I got these clothes- oh, shit."

"What?" Pete asked, the sudden break in Brendon's recounting almost alerting him that something was wrong.

Brendon was staring at the "environmentally healthy" recycled-tire playground. "I left my clothes at his house."

"You  _what_?" Pete asked, his voice reaching a pitch that he'd never thought fathomable.

"I left my clothes at Ryan's house. He washed my clothes so that they didn't smell like beer. That's why I have these clothes on. They're Ryan's."

"Well, damn," Charr muttered in the near silence. "Anyway, what happened next?" She raised her eyebrows and pursed her now-black lips. Her hair had changed color as well; it was black once again, rather than peach.

"I told him that I wanted to be in a relationship, and he told me that it was illegal, and I said that I didn't care, and he said that he wished it were that easy, and then I got upset, and then we sort of talked, and he told me where he worked. He asked me to stop by after school, and then I left."

"Well, what do you think you should do?" Mikey asked, still quiet in tone.

"I guess that I should see him again. Maybe talk it out and take it slow? I really want this to work; he's the first guy that has ever really put up with me." Brendon looked around at the three people he deemed the most trustworthy.

"Well then, take it slow. Talk to Ryan, let him know what you think and how you feel about this situation, and by god, wait until you're eighteen if he says so. He obviously cares enough to make sure that he won't leave you," Charr said suddenly.

"But-"

"Brendon Urie," Charr said almost scarily, getting up and grabbing his shoulders. "You just described to me someone who cares too much for you to leave you alone. Someone who never questioned your decisions, just helped you get upright after toppling over. This Ryan sat you up, dusted the dirt from your shoulders, and sent you back into the world. So what you two had an arguement? You  _are_ a teenager. I am, Pete and Mikey are. We're all just fucking teenages and we sure as hell don't know what's good or bad for us. We can only see what's good and bad for each other, because we can only recognize the signs of whatever is happening when it's _not ourselves_. Because we decieve our minds into thinking that it's all going to turn out simple and perfect. And you know what? I see that Ryan is good for you. I see that he's going to help you. So, dammit, Brendon Urie, I'm going to make sure you don't do something stupid when you've got someone who cares about you right in front of you."


	15. The Queen Witch of Belleville High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope there's at least some hint of plot in here, because honestly this story is kind of a hot mess

"Pete. Pete, come on, I gotta ask you something."

Pete turned in his chair to face Brendon, who had apparently chosen to wear his glasses today rather than struggle with contacts. He'd been trying to talk to Pete all period, and Pete finally gave in.

"What's up, Brendon?"

"I forgot to ask you at lunch, but Mel wants me to come to a meeting thing that she's got after school."

Pete shrugged. "So?"

Brendon furrowed his brow a bit. "So I'm afraid to go alone!" He whispered sharply, bending over in his seat and staring at Pete. Pete noticed the way Brendon looked strained when the words were spoken.

"Brendon, are you doing okay?" The words slipped out, like oil on water. Pete hadn't even noticed that he'd said them until he saw Brendon tense up for a split second. He clapped his hand over his mouth, eyes growing wide.

"I'm fine," Brendon answered quietly, chewing his bottom lip like it was his last line of defense against the possibly harsh words that Pete formulate.

"I'm so sorry, Brendon," Pete apologized rapidly. Where had the question come from? Pete knew better than to ask something like that.

"It's alright, Pete, really," Brendon grinned lopsidedly. "Anyway, would you come to the meeting?"

Pete nodded. "Sure, why not?"

Brendon grinned again. They were silent for the rest of class.

\---

"Again, thank you so much for coming to this," Brendon told Pete. They were walking down by the front office of the school, waiting for Mel to come from her locker so that they could walk to the computer lab together. The boys sat down on a planter-bench hybrid, next to each other, but not awkwardly.

"No homo," Pete giggled.

"Oh for god's sake, Pete," Brendon said, though he struggled because he had started giggling as well. "We're both flaming homos," he grinned as giggles bubbled from his throat.

"Yeah, I guess we are," Pete responded.

After their laughter had subsided, Mel was still nowhere to be seen. Pete was sure they'd been laughing for a good five minutes, but he had a tendency to over-exaggerate. He noticed that Brendon was looking around, sort of zoning out repeatedly.

"Hey, Brendon," Pete started. The usually hyperactive teenager seemed more neurotic today. He had drawn his knees up and was resting his chin on them. His hands were clasped together so tightly that his knuckles were white, except for the scratches that spotted dark pink across the joints. Pete's chest tightened for a moment at the sight, but pushed the idea into his subconscious. Brendon whipped his head at the sound of his name, breaking his intense focus on the corner of the gym building.

"Yeah?" He asked shakily. Pete wondered what he'd been thinking about. He'd seemed fine a short while ago.

"I just wanted to say that I'm really proud of you, man. You haven't skipped almost any school and you're doing your homework, and turning it in. It's like a one-eighty from the last two years." Pete knew that, in order to keep Brendon in this mode, affirming that it was a great thing and that people noticed would be the key. Brendon had spent the last two years vehemently breaking every rule the school and law threw at him, no matter how outrageously strict they were. Pete was really, truly glad that Brendon was suddenly a student and not a truant.

Little did Pete know that Brendon was still breaking the rules. But  _he_  wasn't about to divulge the fact that a guy in his twenties was waiting for Brendon to be legal so they could be together. At least Ryan wanted to be friends. That boded well.

"Well, I mean, my aunt allows me to go out more when I'm not getting calls from the school, and, uh, I rather enjoy seeing you guys after school," Brendon answered, although he'd started rocking back and forth slightly. "Uh, Pete can I," he said after a short pause. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure, yeah, anything," Pete said, wondering if Brendon had a boyfriend that he was going to tell Pete to keep secret.

Instead, his friend rolled up his sleeves and showed his hands, revealing tiny dotted scars scattering across his palms in pointless patterns, like demented sprinkles on a satanic doughnut. Pete's chest seized, and it felt as if his heart would stop.

Those scars were not from Brendon. They were from someone else. Pete knew because he had faded ones across his palms as well; ones from his mom when he was escaping from her drunken rages. Ones that glass bottles had given his hands, ones that had burned when the alcohol moved into the wounds. Ones that he'd told Alex about, and the very same that had been photographed for evidence against his mother.

The last things Pete remembered were small; Mel screaming, "Oh my god!" And Brendon shouting his name. There was a teacher too, who tried to cushion the blow of the gum-spotted cement by throwing her hands under his head, but a split second too late. Pete faintly heard the low crack that his head made, but it was as if he were floating, listening through a wall, fading away. Someone said "Hayley," another voice said "Mikey."

Soon, they all muddled together, becoming a mess on the floor of Pete's mind, like paint knocked from a table and mingling together.

\----

_She was angry again. Real anger, not just a little fuming over a broken nail. She was pissed. I had been out with Alex, and my phone had died. There was no way for her to contact me, even if it was for a few hours only. It was like heaven for a little bit._

_Except for when I got home._

_"Where the fuck have you been?" She shrieked. I smelled booze on her breath, but that was nothing new. Our whole house reeked of the stuff. This was normal, but that didn't stop me from being afraid._

_"I was out, w - with Lex, an - and I lost track of t - time," I stuttered, hoping that I could control the panic coursing through my veins._

_"Didn't you think to check your phone? I'm not paying for that shit for nothing." She was too calm, too casual. And I was terrified._

_"It, d - died-" was all I managed to stammer out before she went berserk._

_"Why the fuck didn't you charge it? How the fuck are you supposed to know that you need to come home?"_

That  _pissed me off. "What am I supposed to do when I come home? Fucking take care of you when you're too fucking drunk to move? I can't even do that! You fucking beat the shit out of me if I look at you the wrong way! This is why dad fucking left and didn't marry you!"_

_The silence that followed my outburst was thick enough to cut with a knife. It fell, in limbo, gently covering the two of us in a heavy winter blanket of quiet._

_"You take it back."_

_That was all she she said._

_"Why should I?"_

_And then, a glass bottle shattered against the wall._

_"You fucking take it back!" She screeched. "I had nothing to do with that deadbeat leaving!"_

_I flinched as shards of the bottle showered around me. I started stumbling backwards as_ she _, not my mother any more, but some woman, fumbled around our living room and grabbed every bottle in sight, pelting them at me. It was glass rain, toxic diamonds falling around me._

_"He's not a deadbeat!" Was my answer as I shielded my face with one hand and kept the other on the wall to guide me backwards to the safety of my bedroom. "You forced him to leave! All the drugs and drinking; it was too much!"_

_A bottle broke at my feet and I tripped backwards, my palms catching the first of many scars. I bit my lip hard against the pain, tasting blood. Even as I fell, the woman I used to call "mommy" continued to throw the bottles in my direction. I turned my body and crawled the rest of the way to my room, the blotchy stained carpet of our once-nice hallway burning my nose with the ever-present scent of alcohol. At last, I slammed my door shut, clicking the lock, thankful that it locked from the inside. I sat and leaned my head against the wood, chips of paint flaking and falling on my shoulders. I stared at my bleeding hands, wondering if I could get Alex to take the glass out, with minimal screams of pain._

_Five minutes or so later, I heard footsteps on the matted carpet and a light knock on my door._

_"Petey?"_

_That was Dad's special name for me._

_"Pete?" She asked again, sounding worried. "Pete?"_

_She knocked the door again. And again. And she called my name out yet again._

_"Pete?" She asked, frantic. She continued pounding the door, so hard that it shook my shoulders. I thought the door was going to break off of the hinges. I focused on the door, wondering if I could hold her back, never noticing the details, even as my mother's voice morphed into a familiar stutter._

_\----_

"P - Pete, please," Mikey begged, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He sniffed and jostled his not-quite-boyfriend's shoulder a little harder, even though the nurses had warned against it. Something about agitating Pete's unconscious mind.

Mikey was sitting in a barely padded chair upholstered with marbled blue vinyl in a moderately large off-white room. To be exact, he was sitting in one of the many rooms where the hospital's not-an-emergency-but-pretty-important patients were housed; a small single in which Pete's unconscious person lay, somewhat comfortably propped on pillows.

The last time Mikey had been in one of these rooms, he had been on the receiving end of the begging to wake up. He clearly remembered Gerard holding his hand tightly, crying as he leaned against the side of the bed, his thumb barely touching the bandages wound tightly around Mikey's forearms, softly praying under his breath that Mikey would be okay. Mikey reckoned that, if he had not been okay, Gerard would have gone to shit. Not just his life, but Gerard himself, with drinking and drugs and nightclubs all over again until Frank stepped in and fixed the problem. Perhaps sending Gerard away, possibly calling the wedding off.

But now was not the time to worry about Gerard, Mikey decided as he reached out for Pete's hand and held it tightly. He felt the faintest movement as the unconscious boy with black hair splayed at all angles stirred at the contact. Mikey's head whipped up as his heart fell. Pete was still blacked out, and the bandage wound around his head was still tight, and yet again, Mikey longed for the comfort of their bedroom, with Hayley downstairs an the other kids outside.

"Pete, I - I won't leave you. I will be like Gerard. I'll be here for you I matter what. Just, pl - please be okay."

And with his testimony, a nurse came into the room and laid her hand lightly on Mikey's shoulder. He looked up at her, all dripping eyeliner and crooked glasses, and she used her head to motion towards the door, a soft, kind smile on her face, as if she knew something and he didn't.

Mikey had to leave.

He nodded, slowly uncurling his fingers from Pete's, taking his trench coat from the other chair in the room and followed the nurse to the doorway. He turned back, fully knowledgeable of the fact that he probably looked like a character from some overdramatic soap opera what with his leaning against the room's doorframe and staring longingly at Pete.

"Come on, dear," the nurse said, gently placing her hand on Mikey's shoulder again. "He'll make it. I promise."

Mikey's eyes flicked up to the nurse's. "Are you sure?"

She just nodded and grinned secretly, before leading Mikey down the hall to the reception area, where he saw Lindsey waiting in the slightly more comfortable chairs. He sat down next to his raven-haired guardian, who rested her hand in his back as he leaned his forehead on the back of another chair.

"Hey God?" Mikey mumbled, recalling the words he'd heard Gerard saying when he was in the hospital. " I know that I don't really talk with you, and that I'm not really the poster boy for religion or anything, but can you wake Pete up soon? I - I need him to wake up. He makes me..." Mikey's lip quivered as a fresh wave of sadness washed over his heart, washing the teenager out, drowning him, and really, Mikey shouldn't have felt as comforted as he did with the familiar darkness surrounding his person.

But the truth was, Mikey felt safe in the heavy midnight of sadness, but he felt safer than ever with Pete, and he wanted nothing more than Pete to be wake up and fill him with light and sunshine.

"He makes me _happy_."

\----

The phone rang, its shrill cries reverberating through the entire house.

This was it.

This was the call that they had been waiting for, the one that had taken weeks of stress, bricks of worry cemented together with apprehension, endless sleepless nights with hearts welling up and spilling out through tear ducts while they sat on the couch with the television muted in the background. This call would be the tipping point between better or worse. Would the news crush their hopes? Would this be the end? They had a habit of expecting the worst, and they feared it now. Although they prayed that their fears would be hindered with the automatic ringing.

That is, if Gerard could get to the phone before it sent their prayers to voicemail.

"Frank! Remind me again why I allowed you to put our only other working phone in the hallway!" Gerard shouted as he careened around the corner from the kitchen, a splash of coffee soaking through the thigh of his worn blue jeans and a spoon in hand.

"Hey!" His boyfriend's voice said happily.

Gerard groaned as Frank's cheery voice played of the receiver. He tried to up his speed to the phone. "Neither Gee or I can get to the phone right now, but leave a message and we'll get back to you!"

"Nygh!" Gerard yelled, the spoon taking a flying launch down the hall towards the kitchen. He fell to his knees in front of the little brown table as Lindsey's voice followed Frank's through the receiver. He made a quick decision to stare at the ornately carved feet of the table that he'd slaved over for a month, also firmly stating that'd woodworking was absolute bullshit.

"Gerard dammit!" Lindsey shouted, her voice slightly crackling from the reception in wherever the hell she was. Maybe she was  _in_  hell. With Lindsey, one never knew what to expect. Gerard certainly hadn't expected her to know someone who had a safe place for, as Mikey had so eloquently put it, "fucking fucked up fuckers who can't fucking deal with their fucked up selves."

"Answer the phone! This is about Mikey and you know it!" Good god, had Lindsey gotten  _more_  demanding since they'd last seen each other?

Gerard wondered this and many more things about his high school friend's person as he perked up from his admittedly overdramatic position where he'd been wallowing in the floor and clambered for the landline, an ashtray that was thankfully not glass falling to the floor and showering Gerard in ashes. He shimmied his hand through his hair, raking his fingers through it to hopefully get most of the dusty grey cigarette remains out of it.

"Gerard! Frank! Pick up the damn phone and answer! I'm not getting off the line until one of you dumbasses pays attention to thi-"

"Linds!" Gerard shouted into the phone, cutting her off while simultaneously thanking the lord for his only female companion's general stubbornness in all situations. It meant that she gave you time to answer her, even if that meant enduring countless backhand compliments and very blatant insults. Gerard made a mental note that she'd chosen the latter for today's address.

"Oh good, you got to the phone in time," Lindsey replied brightly, her demeanor changing at the twist of a dime. Gerard groaned and put his hand on his forehead, forgetting that she was able to do such a thing without emotional drain. He offhandedly wondered if she'd sold her soul to Satan in order to have so much energy. Or perhaps, more likely, she'd married the guy - Gerard wouldn't put it past the aptly named "Queen Witch of Bellville High".

"Don't you give me that attitude, Ger-"

"Lindsey, you said it was about Mikey?" Gerard asked, hopefully diverting her attention from lecturing him about his attitude "problem" like a middle class suburban white mother. He started giggling a bit maniacally; the image of Lindsey Ballato with her black hair and red lipstick in a pink V-neck sweater and grey business slacks, possibly even those weird black wedge heels, holding a tray of brownies and talking to her best frenemy, Helen. It was apparently too much for Gerard, who had the mind of a six year old rather than that of a twenty-six year old. He began to laugh, awkwardly jerking his body on the hall's supposedly expensive rug that Frank had bought for a "deal" that Gerard didn't really care to know about.

The artist could almost hear the disdainful look on her face. "What are you laughing about, Way? Mikey is at the hospital up here and he's not doing well." 


	16. A Flying Spoon of Absolute Death

Generally speaking, when Frank heard about four things fall to the floor of their apartment with various bangs and crashes, he did not question it. His fiancé was an artist, after all. Gerard dropped multiple objects on the daily; paintbrushes, empty glasses, dirty paint water, pencils, and once, the entire canvas. However, when a flying spoon of absolute death came down the hall, Frank considered investing in a bubble wrap body suit as a precaution.

"Gee? You okay, honey?"

An angsty wail was the only reply. Frank half-jogged to the hall to find his fiancé slumped against the wall, clutching the phone in one hand and gripping his hair in the other, his chest heaving and his eyes closed.

"Gerard!" Frank gasped, dropping to his knees. He saw tears streaking Gerard's cheeks. "What's wrong?"

Gerard weakly held the phone out to Frank, who took it and raised it to his ear. "Who is this?" The tone was serious; he  _did_  find his fiancé in a near-unconscious state in their hallway, after all.

"Jesus, Frank." He sighed a small breath of relief as the voice of the raven-haired, possible-Satanist-during-high school girl that happened to be Gerard's best friend came through the phone. "Honestly, who else would it be?"

"Gerard is leaning against the wall and he looks like he's about to stay in this vegetated state for the next few hours. What's going on?" Frank was worried, and he hoped Lindsey could hear the knife blade edge in his voice.

"Well, tell him he can't be an ear of corn forever. You guys should come see Mikey; he's not exactly in the best state at the moment."

"What happened to Mikey? Did he -?"

"Nonono. No,  _he_ didn't do anything," she assured a worried Frank, who internally sighed in relief. He and Gerard had been so terrified that Mikey was going to relapse, and now, he was okay. It had been over a month since the last time Mikey had hurt himself, and Frank was beyond relieved. Lindsey continued talking. "It's his friend. And he's here, crying and he won't go home because he wants to be here for him."

Frank's brain went on vacation for a moment before Lindsey's words truly sunk in.

"Friend? You mean he's doing okay? He's come out of his shell?"

Linsey's sigh crackled through the microphone and Frank pictured her pinching the bridge of her nose.

" _Mikey_  is great. His new best friend-slash-roommate is not. Have you been listening to anything I've said?" The irritation in her voice was at an all time high, and Frank didn't really want to push it, seeing as they were getting information about Mikey.

"Roommate?" He asked.

"Oh for gods sake Frank, I'm coming over tomorrow and we're all driving to have lunch and visit Mikey, okay?" Lindsey was rather pissed off with the elder Way and his fiancé, but Mikey really should see his brother once again, and she was going to make that happen. The phone went silent and Frank checked the screen to realize that Lindsey had hung up.

\--

"We're doing  _what_?"

See, Gerard Way knew that Lindsey Ballato was a stubborn person. He knew that once she set her mind to something, there was no stopping her, however cliche that may sound. She had set out to do many great things when the pair had been friends in high school; dying her hair the same as Gerard so they matched (though Gerard never objected), pissing off their English teacher by pointong out the faulty logic of every novel that the class had read, playing bass in an insanely good band with her friends, and helping kids through the darkest parts of their lives. Somewhat of a legend at their old alma mater, the antics of "that Lindsey Ballato" were still discussed in awe by students and warned against fiercely by teachers.

So naturally, his inability to argue Lindsey out of taking him and Frank to The Williams Home was an expected failure, though worth a try.

He  _had_  been leaning in the edge of the counter, sipping a glass of water. Currently, he was holding the glass in midair, staring at Lindsey in utter disbelief while she smiled widely back at him from the kitchen table, her legs crossed. She twirled one of her pigtails around a finger and looked at him expectantly.

"I told you what we're doing, Gerard. And truthfully, I'm not leaving without you two, so there's really no argument here." She stood up and smoothed her skirt across her fishnet-encased thighs, and adjusted the short-sleeved shirt that she was wearing. "Come on, we have to get going if we're ever going to make it back before sundown and find you two a moderately nice, open hotel room."

"Hold on, Linds. We didn't  _agree_  to this," Gerard said as he set the glass down with a muffled thump against the faux granite countertop.

"I didn't give you a choice, Gerard."

"You literally showed up at our doorstep and told us to pack a bag for the weekend. And you  _still_  haven't explained what's going on completely," Gerard countered.

"Do you really want to know what's happening Gerard?" Lindsey shot back with a fair amount of edge to her voice, her eyes hardening.

"Lindsey, maybe you should go to the car. I'll put together a quick weekend bag for Gee and I -" Frank said quickly, hoping to avoid a battle of snark between his fiancé and their best friend.

"Shut up, Frank," Lindsey said sharply.

"Don't talk to him like that!" Gerard interjected, matching Lindsey's icy tone.

"You want to know what's happening?" Lindsey barked, her pigtails whirling around as she whipped her head from Frank to face the older Way. "Mikey's roommate passed out at school and cracked his head against the pavement, and an ambulance took him to the hospital. And now Mikey is worried sick because he hasn't woken up yet and he's afraid to leave the hospital. No one has been able to get him to leave; he spends most of his time at the side of the hospital bed, he's missed two days of school, and the hospital staff has to persuade him to eat." Lindsey had fire in her eyes - there was no stopping her. "I thought that maybe Mikey would start acting a bit more normal if you two showed up and convinced him that it was going to be alright."

Lindsey sat down heavily in the kitchen chair she'd just gotten up from. She put her head in her hands and took a few deep breaths. Gerard stared at her, his face frozen in a mixture of shock and sadness, his mouth gaping like a fish. Frank was stunned as well; Mikey was generally quiet and kept to himself, so hearing that he'd gotten a roommate was a surprise. And now, Mikey was staying at the bedside of someone who he had known for only a month or so.

Frank had déjà vu of this same scene, though not in this same place, from years ago, in high school. But instead of Gerard and Lindsey, it had been his friend Jamia crying about her brother Evan. Instead of a rundown apartment kitchenette, it had been a fancy-schmancy whole kitchen that was far too big for its own good, with a stainless steel double-door refrigerator and freezer combo. The whole place had been laden with off-white tile and granite countertops, and Jamia's mother would have lost her mind if she knew that Evan had disappeared the night before. Thankfully, Mrs. Nestor was in business trips a majority of the time and her children generally fended for themselves. But he shook himself out of that memory now as Lindsey lifted her head from her arms, eyes red from the silent tears that had been shed.

"The first night in the hospital, Mikey was sitting at his bedside, holding his hand. He - he said that he would be just like you, Gee."

\---

Mikey stared at the cling wrapped bowl of vanilla pudding in front of him, almost wishing that he could muster the effort to open the package of jiggly mush and eat it. Frankly, the flavor of the vanilla was beginning to melt away to the taste of what Mikey imagined the color beige to taste like. He'd never tried tasting a color, with the exception of that one time in his freshman year, with his hell of a foster family when he and his friends tried LSD for the first time. But that was more of purple smoke and candy scars; colors bleeding through the walls of his brain, enveloping his mind in a completely tie-dyed world with a serious beige deficit.

On the other side of a completely different coin that did not involve excessive drug use, he'd made it a month so far without hurting himself, a feat that he was rather proud of, and the scars were fading a bit. He wanted to ensure that Pete would wake up to Mikey, clean at the least, rather than Mikey in the hospital as well. Plus, he felt extremely proud of himself, like he had just had a picture pinned on the refrigerator and wanted to show off his accomplishment to Pete.

"You have to eat, sugar."

Mikey looked up as the nurse from his first night at the hospital took the chair across the table from him. He pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose and continued his blank stare at the nurse.

"Come on, sweetheart, just one bite," she said. She reached across the table and grabbed the bowl of pudding, unwrapping it and scooping a little with the plastic spoon before handing it over to Mikey, who stared at the blob of food like it was Jabba the Hut's albino cousin or something of that sort.

"One spoonful, sugar," the nurse prompted.

"Don't wanna," Mikey mumbled, well aware of the fact that he was acting like a five year old trapped inside of a teenager's body. At the moment, he didn't really care; his almost-sort-of boyfriend was unconscious and Mikey felt that he had a right to pout for an ungodly extent of time.

The nurse matched his frown. "You hafta," she mumbled back. Her lips were lightly coated in a barely-there pinkish shine. Mikey recalled the first night in the hospital when he had been holding Pete's hand and she had smiled and told him that it would be alright. He realized that he had seen the same glossed smile that had probably given hope to countless other people. It felt good, in a way, to know that he shared the same knowing grin as other patients and their families. It felt intimate, to know that she had the same faith in Pete that he did.

Mikey shook his shoulders and head, trying to casually get rid of the dopey grin that might be on his face, and felt his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose again. He adjusted them and decided to stare at the plastic grey tabletop, contemplating anything that he could come up with. What his mind managed to summon was the fact that Mikey hadn't actually showered in two days. Hayley would have a fit once he got back to the Home, he thought. She might keep him home just so that he could take a proper one. Mikey wondered if Pete would mind the scent of Old Spice deodorant, and more importantly, would he recognize the tiny detail that it was the same scent that Pete used. Apparently, Pete enjoyed smelling of "palm trees, sunshine, and freedom".

The nurse wiggled the spoon in front of Mikey, the movement drawing him out of his sort-of daydream about Pete. He wanted Pete to wake up, and even though the possibility of a coma was like, one in a billion, and Pete was not dead, nor anywhere near dying, he was also not talking with Mikey, or groaning about homework, or cracking stupid jokes and making bad puns. Sure, Andy, Joe, Brendon, Spencer, and Dallon had come to visit Pete and Mikey, and Patrick had made an effort to talk with him, but frankly, Mikey wanted Pete back. He grumbled something about Jabba the Hut under his breath and took the spoon, eating the jiggling mass of tastelessness.

"Better?" The nurse asked, sounding like an actor from one of the stupid Snickers ads on television. Mikey attempted to glare at her, but probably just looked like he felt, which was tired as hell with a personality to match.

The nurse just checked her watch, smiling knowingly. "If you want, I can walk you up there and let you two talk for a while," she suggested "Visiting hours are soon; I'm sure that the other staff members wouldn't mind." She watched the hoodie-clad boy's eyes brighten and his head perk up at the possibility of seeing his friend. Mikey gathered the plastic - everything in here was covered in plastic, the food, the beds, hell, the  _people_  were covered in plastic half the time - and threw it in the (expectedly) plastic covered garbage bin and followed the nurse upstairs.

Mikey watched the nurse's ponytail bob up and down as she led him to Pete's room. She was in blue scrubs today, and she had been in green ones the day before. Maybe it was her way to remember which day it was. Or maybe she just enjoyed having a rainbow of work outfits. He didn't know.

The nurse slid a keycard into the slot on the door handle and waited a few moments before gently opening the door, as if she might wake Pete.

"Come on in," she said quietly, motioning inside of the room. "No one will be the wiser since there are only about five minutes until everybody else comes to visit."

Mikey shuffled into the room and took his signature place in the blue chair next to the bed. He looked at the nurse blankly, not quite sure which emotions to display anymore.

"I'll leave you two alone. Ring the button next to his bed if you need anything," she said, showing Mikey the remote-looking thing with a single button on it. And then she left, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Mikey turned his attention to Pete, wondering if he would be able to persuade Pete to try a hairstyle that was not black. Mikey had been thinking of changing his own hair color for a while, but wasn't sure of what he would do. He took off the beanie that was his signature look and ran his fingers through his hair, contemplating the possibilities.

The room was quiet, save for the annoying and ever-present beep of the EKG machine, keeping track of Pete's heartbeat. Mikey remembered that Gerard had insisted on calling it by the full name; i.e. the electrokardiograph machine, with a "k, because that's the original German spelling, Mikes". Mikey knew the beeping sound well, too well. He would say that it was like an old friend, but truthfully, it was more like that one annoying kid that you helped once during eighth grade and they attached themselves to you for the rest of your learning career. Unless you moved away, which Mikey figuratively had done. He was not about to reignite a friendship with the heart rate monitor, however.

He looked at Pete's hand, laying still in contrast to the crisp white sheets, and slowly interlocked his fingers with Pete's. They were slightly cold; off-temperature in a way that would tell someone that he had been unconscious for far more than a few hours. Mikey leaned forward and rested his head on the edge of the bed, wondering how much longer Pete would be in this stupid place. Time passed differently in the compact, off-white room; slower or faster depending on where your person was sitting.

And then, he felt it.

Not some overpowering emotion, or wave of realization, that would be too cliché; just a small squeeze. Around his fingers. From the hand that he was holding. Mikey was sure that his heart skipped a beat, and that he was imagining the slight pressure from the supposedly knocked-out boy in the hospital bed.

"Pete?" Mikey whispered hoarsely, his eyes widening and his voice filling with disbelief. He tightened his hand, hoping that he had not been hallucinating on hospital fumes or something.

It happened again. Pete's fingers tightened again, holding Mikey's hand in his. Mikey knew that he should ring the nurse down to the room so she could make sure Pete was healthy, but the urge to be the first person that Pete saw upon waking up won out.

"Come on, Pete," Mikey urged quietly. "You can do this. I know that you're in there."

He watched as Pete's forehead scrunched ever so slightly, a sign that his mind and body were fighting, to stay unconscious, to wake up; to be or not to be. His hand twitched, holding Mikey's hand tighter, so tight that Mikey was sure that he was going to break his wrist. Mikey felt his heart thump upwards into the bottom of his throat, a cocktail of fear, worry, and hope throbbing in his Adam's apple. His breathing sped up as he watched Pete laying in the bed, warring internally to come back.

And then it was over.

Pete's eyes opened slowly, blinking even in the dim lighting of the hospital bedroom. Mikey's breath hitched, stopping in his throat like a racehorse in its tracks. Pete on the other hand, took a massive sighing breath, his shoulders and torso rising, before exhaling and letting himself seemingly deflate into what was probably one of the most uncomfortable mattresses he would ever lay on. As he made mental notes of his surroundings, he became increasingly aware of the fact that there was a hand entwined with his, and that hand was warm and strangely familiar, though he could not quite place  _why_  for all that it meant.

"Pete?" A wavering voice asked from the side of the stupidly uncomfortable bed. "Are you -? Can you -?"

Pete licked his lips. They were dry, like a desert that had not even gotten the rainy season. No pretty flowers, just sand. Fucking sand,  _everywhere_. Goddamn he wanted water, and a ton of it. Pete felt like he could drink an entire lake, though he did not fancy being on the receiving end of giardia.

"Pete?" The quiet voice asked again, sounding more in awe than nervous. Why did it sound so familiar? Who had a soft, unassuming voice?  _Why_  did he feel so at peace hearing the thing? He craned his neck to look over, and his memories were jogged, rushing back to him like a sucker punch right in the nose.

 _Mikey._ God, he looked good, much better than the first day Pete had seen him, awkward knees and all. Even with his fading, half-rubbed off eyeliner acting as today's smokey eye, Mikey looked great. He had obviously been crying, crying over Pete. But for how long? Pete was not sure if he'd been in the hospital for two hours or two months. Either would have driven Mikey to the brink of insanity, in all honesty.

"Mikey?" Pete asked, testing his voice. His tongue felt uncomfortable in his mouth, laying like an awkward lump in his lower jaw. It also felt like he had been holding cotton in his mouth, and now it was dry and barren, the beach before the tide comes in.

He watched as Mikey's face flooded with relief. Or, not so much flooding. More of a gentle river flowing into his face, washing away the red cheeks and frown lines.

"Oh my god, you're awake, and you're taking, an - and you can see me, and you remember me and oh my gosh I was afraid that you would never wake up." Mikey was talking a mile per minute, and Pete noticed that his stutter was almost non-existent.

"And Hayley was worried sick, and she's still at the Home and I've been staying here in the waiting room and the food tastes like cardboard and Lindsey was here but now she's not and I'm not quite sure where she is and, and, and I'm glad you're awake."

Pete smiled at the last line as Mikey heaved a breath. He tightened his grip on Mikey's hand again. "I'm glad you stayed, Mikey."

Mikey blushed, the pink flaming up his cheeks, and grinned awkwardly. "I, uh, you're welcome," he mumbled, looking down at the tiles floor. "Lindsey tried to get me to go back, and I wouldn't do it. Going to school was out of the question. Oh, yeah!" Mikey stopped and switched the subject. "Patrick, and Andy, and Joe dropped by. They wanted me to give you this when you woke up." He reached into the pockets on the hoodie and pulled out a crumpled piece of loose leaf binder paper. Pete took it from Mikey and unfolded what he expected was a note, smoothing out the wrinkles.

 _Pete,_ it read, in Andy's scrawl.  _Dude, we hope you're up and moving soon. And playing. 'Cause guess what? We want to start a band. Did you know that Patrick played guitar? And holy hell, he can sing. He's so quiet, you'd never suspect a thing. Anyway, we thought that it would be fucking cool to have a band. We all tried coming up with a name, but Patrick killed us. He said we should be called Fall Out Boy. Doesn't that sound fucking awesome? Man, talk to us ASAP. Sorry for not texting, this was easier to write in math class without getting caught._

_Andy, Joe, and Patrick_

Pete read the smudged words a few more times, really letting the meaning sink in. They wanted to start a band. Something that they had been dying to do since freshman year. Pete felt all tingly inside, just imagining the possibility of becoming not only a band, but possible international fame and stardom. He could see it now: showing up at airports with people screaming when they saw the band, signing autographs, taking photos, playing live, recording - it'd be amazing. But what about Mikey?

He looked at his roommate, his newfound best friend, and definite teenager status crush, and the image of Mikey standing backstage, watching the shows appeared. He would tour with them and get introduced on stage, and take dumb photos and post them on every social media website. And when the band finally went to  _Japan_... Pete realized that he could get Mikey green tea KitKats and they could hang out and talk about candy, and everything would be perfect.

"Hey, Mikey, have you ever tasted a green tea KitKat before?"

Mikey looked at Pete with a face full of nothing but confusion and possibly slight worry. "Uh, no?"

"Huh," Pete said, over-exaggerating his reaction. He settled his head more comfortably on the single pillow on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "You really should sometime. They're pretty good. My, uh, my dad used to get them for me from some little Asian store in the downtown area where we lived."

Pete watched Mikey nod in his peripheral vision. He loved the way Mikey nodded, his head moving with his whole body rather than a quick acknowledgement. It was something small that Pete remembered from the first time he had seen Mikey.

"Your dad?" Mikey asked slowly, testing the water rather than diving in.

"Yeah," Pete said quietly, staring at the ceiling. "My dad. He was really cool. You would like him a lot."

Mikey nodded again, the room filling with a tense awkwardness as silence filled the empty space. "Um..." Mikey started. "You know, we have to kind of let the staff know that you're awake."

"Do we have to?" Pete mock-whined, scrunching his eyebrows and nose up. He looked over at Mikey with puppy dog eyes, begging him to be alone together for a little while longer.

"Do you  _want_  to stay in this bed any longer?" Mikey retorted, trying to ignore the face that Pete was pulling. "Plus, the nurse who helps out in this section is really nice. She wants you to get out of here as soon as possible."

Pete huffed in contemplation, biting his lower lip. "Well, great minds think alike," he said finally.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mikey asked. Pete was rambling and answering cryptically. He had a feeling that this was going to happen a lot more often now, what with Pete's head trauma and all.

"It  _means_ ," Pete said, wondering if Mikey understood what he was saying. "That  _you_  want me out, and whoever this nurse is wants me out, and if  _you_  have a great mind, then she has a great mind."

Mikey rolled his eyes, making a mental note that Pete would probably mumble to himself like this more than he usually did. He already talked in his sleep; Mikey had heard many interesting conversations about ice cream and some guys named Alex and Jack, who he thought were pretty nice based off of his insomniac eavesdropping.

"Well, I'm required to let the important hospital people know that you have woken up, so you don't really have a say in the matter," Mikey said, his voice more of a baby-talk than it should have been.

Pete half-rolled his eyes, giving Mikey a look that said Pete was more overdone with his sass than bread that had been in the toaster for an hour. " _Fine_ ," he answered.

Mikey just rolled his eyes again and reached for the remote, pressing the button that signaled the nurses to come to the room for whatever reason that the student or their beloved might have; be it water or a supernatural protection spell permit. Not that the latter was common per se, just an idea.  
\--

Hayley Williams was stressed. Done. Over it. She could not even. Hayley Williams was at the end of her rope. But someone who was probably pretty smart once said, "if you're at the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on."

So that's what she did.

Of course, whoever had said that had probably never dealt with at-risk teenagers in droves, but she didn't know their life. Currently, Hayley was trying to  _not_  pull her hair out at the thought of Pete on the hospital and Mikey at the hospital and she hoped that Mikey was eating and that he was safe. Obviously, she was worried about Pete as well; she had been his legal guardian since he was fourteen, after all. But Hayley knew that the hospital staff would take care of Pete, and in her opinion, Mikey was a lot less stable than Pete. Lindsey had promised her that both boys would be okay, but Hayley still worried. She had done all the paperwork for Pete's admission and care, thankfully, meaning one less thing from her plate.

At the moment, she was sitting at the Home's beaten up kitchen table, all of the kids in their bedrooms or watching television, staring at her cell phone as if it were the only thing keeping her alive. In a book, she would probably have the fingers of one hand wound in her hair and and cigarette smoldering in between the fingers of the other, but Hayley Williams did not roll that way. Lindsey was supposed to have texted her as soon as she arrived with Mikey's older brother, aka Lindsey's old high school friend, Gerard.  _And Gerard's fiancé_ , Lindsey had added as an afterthought of a text message.

Hayley wondered if this fiancé had been Mikey's final breaking point. But that couldn't be right, because his records showed that he had been in and out of therapy and hospitals for a good few years before the fiancé had even made a debut.

"In fact," Hayley murmured as she pushed the chair back and made her way to her office in the hall, opening the door and closing it tightly as she entered the dimly lit room which contained all of the actual business parts of running a safe place. "A-ha!" She whispered hoarsely as a grin crept into her face and she pulled a file from one of the sorted bins.

It was too new to be dusty, and it still kind of smelled like stiff social workers who needed to go out to clubs and bang random strangers once in awhile. The neat script inside, under a picture of a bleary, red-eyed teenage boy, with a beanie and rings of eyeliner and a semi-grimace that made the photo look more like a mugshot said:

_Michael James Way, age sixteen._   
_Dearest Ms. Williams,_   
_I have been informed by one Lindsey Ballato that you run a home for at-risk children and teenagers, that of which may be the best place for the boy pictured above. Michael has had a troublesome past, as you will see in the next few pages of files. Do not be alarmed if he tries to persuade you into letting him go out late at night, as his previous residencies have stated this as a reoccurring issue. I personally believe that he did not do it on purpose, but rather that he was in a bad crowd and area of his life, which reacted together vehemently._

_I hope that you can do your "magic" with him, as Miss Ballato says._

_Best of luck,_

_Brian Schecter_

Hayley thumbed through the following papers, each noting anything that Brian had felt was necessary information. Detailed descriptions of Mikey's drug and alcohol habits, of his psychological state, and his attitude were all at her fingertips. Pages of his drug abuse, of his talent at stealing pills and booze right under his "parents'" noses; stints in jail, at correctional facilities, group therapy, one-on-one therapy...the list went on and on. But Hayley was searching for one bit of information in particular.

She tugged one of the pages out of the folder and set it on the desk, paper in hand. Hayley looked at the two black and white photos that were printed on the off-white sheet, semi-serious faces making her to believe that these were driver's lisence copy-and-pastes. She guessed that they were about her age; two twenty-somethings that had been placed in a situation much bigger than themselves.

Typed in some professional font beneath the photos was all of the information that Hayley had been looking for.

_Frank Anthony Iero, age twenty-three, works at: Colonial Records, 6665 Market Street Plaza. Multiple bodily modifications, no gang affiliations. Engaged to Gerard Arthur Way._

_Gerard Arthur Way, age twenty-six, works at: Secret Stash Comic Books, 6664 Market Street Plaza. No bodily modifications, no gang affiliations. Past drug and alcohol abuse, sober two years. Engaged to Frank Anthony Iero._

_Both interviwees have been approved as safe legal guardians of Micheal James Way after he is deemed well._

Hayley crumpled the pristine page in her hand a bit when a few light knocks rang on the office's door. She set the page down on top of the folder and opened the door to reveal two of her older boys standing side by side, their eyes looking slightly nervous.

"Bert, James, what's going on?" She asked. It was downtime, before lights out. They should be watching Saturday Night Live or something in the front room, not in the hallway. James bit his lower lip and he and Bert met eyes before looking back at their caretaker.

"Someone is knocking on the door, and your phone was going off," Bert said, brushing a piece of his long hair out of his eye and tucking it behind his left ear. "It scared us, and we didn't want the little kids to be afraid so we told them that you probably knew the person. But we're not sure, and whoever it is keeps knocking."

As if on cue, the incessant ringing of the doorbell shrilled throughout the bottom floor of the two-story. James flinched and moved closer to Bert, who subconciously moved into a more protective position. Hayley met Bert's eyes and smiled a little. He had gotten mixed up in a pretty harsh gang and had probably done more drugs than Hayley even knew existed. But she knew that really, Bert was a sweet seventeen year old who had blossomed since arriving at the Home when he was fifteen. He was especially protective of the younger children, and enjoyed being around them.

The doorbell's two-toned sound was beginning to grate on Hayley's nerves as she walked past Bert and James, down the hall and to the door, opening it as far as the chain would allow.

"What the hell do you wan-? Linds?"

The bell stopped and Hayley looked out of the gap in between the door and the wall, meeting eyes with a smug looking Lindsey Ballato and two young guys, which she assumed to be none other than Frank Iero and Gerard Way.

\--

Two strange men were sitting at the table in Hayley's kitchen. They looked like they had been kidnapped, which really wasn't far from the truth, according to what Lindsey had told her. Both had their hands in their laps and their ankles crossed; the perfect example of being uncomfortable in a new friend's house for the first time.

"So," Hayley said, scrambling for anything, awkward small talk, the weather, if any of them had ever killed a man; really, any conversation at all.

"So," the tall one answered.

Lindsey groaned from her perch on the counter and hopped down. "Gerard," she said, pointing to the one who had replied to Hayley. She pointed back at her orange-haired friend. "Hayley." The same followed for Frank.

"Now that you know each other, talk."

"About  _what_?" Gerard asked with a tone that could put any troublesome teenager to shame.

"Hmm, I don't know, how about your  _brother_?" Lindsey retorted without skipping a beat. "Hayley  _is_  his guardian until further notice."

Hayley decided that she should put a stop to the argument before it blew up in her and Frank's faces. "Gerard, that's your name, right? Mikey talked a lot about you the first morning that he was here. Said he had a great dream about you protecting him from a nightmare."

She watched as the attitude dropped from Gerard's face in an instant and his eyes filled with a sort of sad-happy look at the thought of Mikey. "Really?" He asked quietly.

Hayley nodded.

"Oh, for god's sake," Lindsey said irritably. "I told them that Mikey was in the hospital with a friend."

Hayley, Frank, and Gerard all stared at Lindsey with wide eyes, like deer that had heard a shot in the previously quiet forest.

She simply grinned back. "Discuss."

"Uh, who's his friend?" Frank asked awkwardly.

Hayley bit her lower lip. "His name is Pete. He's, ah, he's Mikey's -"  _boyfriend? "_ Roommate."

"Cool," Frank nodded. This was still small talk, no actual conversation. He wondered how much longer they would all have to keep up the chit chat without any actual direction to their discussion. Thankfully, the phone rang before Frank could start speaking and screw up, causing ubiquitous embarrassment for everyone involved.

Hayley walked to the phone, picking up the cordless device. "Hullo?" She asked into the receiver. The faint sound of someone speaking from the other line could be heard. "Uh-huh," Hayley nodded, her eyes growing to the size of the moon. "I'll be down there. I've got some family with me, can I -? Yes? Okay. Yes, we'll be right there." She turned around to face the expectant and confused faces of Lindsey, Frank, and Gerard.

"Well?" Lindsey asked.

"That was the hospital, Pete's awake."

\--

Mikey had never seen so many people crammed into one room before. He assumed that everyone had just one doctor around them at all times, but that, apparently, was only required for the people who were on suicide watch. If they were  _not_  on the aforementioned, there seemed to be no boundary as to how many people surrounded you and entered your vicinity. Certainly Pete must feel crowded by everyone, he had never been one who particularly  _liked_  a lot of people surrounding him.

Mikey had been kicked out of the whitewashed room, pushed to the side while a surplus of men and women in white lab coats bustled in and out of Pete's room. Currently, he was sitting on the slightly cushioned benches facing the doorway, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the spotted tiles, counting the dots, wondering if this is what Gerard had done the day that Mikey had woken up. He faintly remembered Gerard being told that he was not allowed in the room, and the feeling of trepidation as Gerard squeezed his hand and told him to be good to the doctors while they asked him questions.

He was shaken from his memories by a gentle hand being placed on his shoulder. Mikey looked up to the nurse that had been watching out for him for three days. She flashed him yet another kind, soft smile. "You have some visitors in the waiting room."

Mikey shrugged and removed himself from the benches slowly, looking back at Pete's room as he followed her down the hall.

\--

"Do you think he'll want to see me?" Gerard asked nervously, fidgeting with the collar of his denim jacket. "I mean, we haven't seen each other in almost a year and a half, and he's changed, and I've changed, and, and -"

"You'll be  _fine_ , Gee." Lindsey smiled assuringly. She adjusted his collar in a motherly fashion, making it look less like the older Way had been folding it up and down for the past twenty minutes and more like the jacket had simply been wrinkled in the laundry. "Trust me, he'll be elated to see you after so long."

Gerard held Frank's hand, anxiously watching the stainless steel doors of the elevator for any indication that his little brother was going to enter the waiting room. Frank gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and when Gerard looked over to his fiancé, a smile that could have ended the world wars, in his opinion.

A small gasp from Lindsey drew the couple from their moment. Gerard looked to the shining doors of the elevator, which opened to reveal a nurse in pale blue scrubs, and Mikey, in rumpled three day old clothes. He was sleepily standing next to the nurse, quite obviously exhausted from the past days' insanity, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. The nurse leaned down and said something to Mikey; she was somehow taller than the lanky sixteen year old. She pointed in the direction of the four of the adults Mikey actually believed wanted to help him. The younger Way turned slowly, as if he could not believe what he was being told.

Gerard watched in hazy anticipation as his little brother's eyes widened to figurative dinner plates. Mikey stared at him, his eyes communicating more that his mouth ever would. They asked if it was true, if Gerard was standing in the waiting room, if he was a real person that could be hugged and held and loved. And Gerard nodded back, ever so slightly, assuring Mikey of everything.

\--

Mikey went as fast as his sleep deprived limbs would allow, meaning that he most likely shuffled across the stretch of room with the speed of a determined zombie toward his brother. When he reached his brother's arms, he fell into them, his fingers finding solace in the worn soft denim of Gerard's jacket. And he cried, from exhaustion and fear and joy, his tears streaming down his cheeks and and staining Gerard's paint splattered shirt as his older brother wrapped his arms around Mikey and pulled him as close as their bodies would allow.

"Shh, Mikes, you'll be alright, I'm here, it's okay, it's okay," Gerard whispered into Mikey's hair, soothing the younger's tears and trying his hardest to prevent himself from bursting into tears. Mikey stopped shaking and pulled away from Gerard's shirt, sniffling and rubbing his eyes, smearing the last of the black eyeliner away from his eyes and down his cheeks. He no longer looked like a demented raccoon, and instead looked like what he was - a teenager who had barely slept or eaten in three days and was now running on the mediocre sugar content of that stupid, tasteless, lying, so-called vanilla pudding.

"Pete," he mumbled, his voice laden with the remnants of crying.

"Who?" Gerard asked, cocking his head and examining his brother.

"Pete. He - he's in the room, and they won't let me in, but you're here, and oh my goodness, you're  _here_ , and I can't believe that you actually  _are_  here -" Mikey took a breath (which really should have been classified as a gasp) and stood in front of Gerard, his mouth agape.

Gerard grinned. "Yeah. I'm here. And Frank is too, if you haven't noticed."

Mikey rolled his eyes. "You were the first one I saw, dumbass."

Gerard shook his head and pulled his brother in for another hug. He let go and held Mikey at the shoulders. "How about you introduce us to this Pete then, huh?"


	17. Careful Bathroom Contemplation

Ryan Ross did not know how to feel about this particular day.

You see, on one hand, Brendon had finally agreed to see him at the comic shop, something that he was very excited about. However, Brendon had also drank at least two cups of coffee and was currently nursing his third mug from the old coffee bubbler in the back room of the store, while Ryan flipped through the glossy pages of a magazine that his friend Spencer had donated to him a few days earlier. It had an article titled "Ten Surefire Ways to Get the Guy - And Why Your Way Isn't The One". He wondered if Brendon would be slightly jealous of the magazine; he seemed to consider himself to be "Ryan's guy", and tried to be subtle about it.

On the  _other_  hand though, Brendon was with him and Ryan had a surprise for him, if Brendon agreed.

"Ryan?"

He turned, shutting the magazine with jealousy-inducing articles with unnatural speed, to face where the voice was coming from. Brendon was leaning on the doorframe, holding the mug with his sleeves wrapped around his fingers to protect against the heat.

"What's up, Brendon?" Ryan asked, still contemplating whether or not the magazine would really make a difference with it's stupidly generic directions on how to acquire the "perfect guy".

_Step 1: Comment on how he looks, he loves it just as much as you do!_

Ryan scanned Brendon's outfit; a lavender hoodie half-zipped over one of numerous band tee shirts that he owned, and black jeans. A black pair of scuffed and dirty Converse adorned his feet, the ratty laces pulled taught. It was a casual outfit for a casual teenager in a casual comic book store because that is  _exactly_  what Brendon was because secret not-quite boyfriends what? Those are most definitely not a thing, nope.

"You look nice today, Bren," he commented. "The purple really brings out your eyes."

Brendon's cheeks flushed visibly from the compliment and he bit his lower lip, turning away shyly.

"Aw, don't do that," Ryan said earnestly. "You're cute, you should know that."

"'M not cute," Brendon said, his voice muffled from shying into the wall and using his coffee as a blockade.

Ryan left the glossy instruction "manual" with wide-eyed smiling famous people on the cover and walked over to Brendon, grinning as he gently pried the coffee away from Brendon's blushing face, being careful as so he would not spill it on the grey, already coffee stained carpeting of the shop. Brendon had been showing up in the shop for a few weeks now, but he never failed to wear that lavender hoodie, which Ryan liked. It looked good on Brendon, and Ryan was not about to stop something that made him look so damn cute.

"Yeah, you are. Very cute, if you ask me. So utterly and exponentially cute that it would be wrong of me if I did not acknowledge the fact," Ryan stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

"What happened to "we can't date, you're seventeen, I'll get arrested, wah, wah, wah?" You're not trying to  _seduce_  me, are you?" Brendon grinned, wondering if he was annoying Ryan or simply confusing him.

Ryan already had a lack of seriousness whenever he was with Brendon, but he lost any shard of it he had left the moment Brendon that Brendon attempted the cheesy conversation. Shaking his head and smirking, he answered. "Not seduce you," he grinned, before looking off into space, away from Brendon. "Just ask you on a date."

\--

It was a picture perfect, Kodak moment Sunday when Pete and Mikey walked out of the hospital. Pete had been cleared only an hour ago - after that, the same nurse who had been with Mikey throughout the past three days had helped gather all of Pete's "personal objects" (which he  _insisted_  sounded dirtier that it was after Mikey nearly cried laughing) and get Hayley and Lindsey to sign all of the necessary forms for Pete's release. The adults followed behind them at an "appropriate" length - they were just there to make sure that Pete did not pass out. Birds chirped from the trees, calling out for one reason or another as Mikey walked unnecessarily close to Pete, in case the shorter teenager's legs decided to give out and cause him to fall. Maybe the birds were trying to cheer Pete on in some way, though that was improbable.

"So," Pete said, upon reaching the black car that Lindsey had driven to the hospital that morning. He leaned against the side door, tired from the hospital stay.

Mikey took a breath through his nose. "So."

"Did you sleep well last night?" Pete asked, an edge of worry in his voice. Mikey had gone back to the Home for the first time in three days, the night before, with Gerard and Frank and Lindsey. Pete just wanted to know if Mikey had done something.

Mikey shrugged. "I slept okay, I guess."

"You guess?" Pete asked, attempting to subtely glance at Mikey's "danger zones" - areas where Mikey was more likely to hurt himself - but everything seemed to check out.

"I mean, lately I have been waiting on  _someone_  in the hospital," Mikey joked a little. "Last night was nice for sleeping in my bed, but the room was pretty empty without you."

Pete felt his cheeks go hot as Mikey glanced into the distance. He turned and saw that Lindsey, Hayley, Gerard, and Frank were all standing away from the two of them, at the edge of the parking lot. They looked like tiny silhouttes of themselves, shadows with bright hair and tight jeans.

"You didn't  _do_  anything, did you?" Pete asked, biting his lip and subconsciously reeling back from the explosion that he could have possibly caused.

Mikey's grin faltered for a moment. It was a testy subject, and Pete wondered if he had offended Mikey. He hoped that he had not - Mikey was his best friend, kind-of boyfriend, definite crush, and that was that.

An explosion did not seem to be in Pete's near future, thankfully, as Mikey looked down and rolled up his sleeves without hesitation before looking up and smiling proudly at Pete. Pete looked at his arms, and felt the pride that Mikey was so blatantly showing blossom inside his chest, a mass of what felt like bubbles surging from his heart to his torso, through his legs and arms, and down to his feet and fingers. He saw that the scars from a few months ago were beginning to fade from harsh pink to dusty brown, and some were nothing more than thin white lines that were barely noticeable. Pete looked up at Mikey and they shared a smile.

The moment was short-lived however, when their four adults came casually strolling up to the car, talking about gas station diners and how surprisingly good the food was. Lindsey dug the keys out of her purse and unlocked the doors, and the six people clamoured into the vehicle. Mikey and Pete dove into the very backseat, earning raised eyebrows from Frank and a suggestive grin from Gerard as the couple piled into the middle row. Lindsey jumped into the driver's seat as Hayley hopped into the passenger side, riding shotgun by default.

"So Mikes," Gerard started, turning around in his seat and striking a conversation up as soon as the car was rolling out of the parking lot and into the street. "Frank and I were thinking of taking you and Pete out for lunch and then spending the afternoon around the downtaown area in the next city over. You two have Hayley's permission, and Lindsey gave Frank and I the car for the day. But it's only if you guys feel up for it."

Mikey looked at Pete questioningly, silently asking for his answer rather than immediately replying to Gerard's inquiry. Pete shrugged; he supposed that he would have had to meet Gerard and Frank eventually, so why not now? Plus, he was getting free food and that was something that could never go wrong. Unless somebody drugged of course. Then you would be shit out of luck.

Roofied meals aside, Pete nodded. It would be fun, plus Gerard and Frank seemed to have a killer music taste, so maybe they could check out a music store or something along those lines.

"We'd love that, Gee," Mikey said excitedly. Pete saw the way Mikey's eyes lit up at the notion of spending time with his brother, and wondered if Mikey had not seen him for a while now.

"Great," Lindsey said, looking back in the rearview mirror. She turned the corner onto the freeway that would take them from the town back home. "Hayley and I will be at the house with everyone else. And we'll probably be waiting up for you guys if Frank and Gerard run late."

"I am appalled that you think we would  _ever_  get them home past midnight," Gerard gasped, feigning insult.

Lindsey rolled her eyes and looked back on the road before slamming her foot down on the brakes.

"God damn, Linds," Gerard commented, his knuckles white as he held onto his seatbelt for dear life.

"This fucking idiot wants to switch lanes and doesn't even fucking put their signal on and then just fucking moves over like there  _isn't_  a car full of people right behind their car. Jesus fucking Christ Pete's going to get killed right after getting out of the hospital at this point. Fucking hell." Lindsey took a deep breath and readjusted her grip on the steering wheel, having got out the majority of her swearing, but none of her cursing. "Damn him," Lindsey muttered in the near-deafening silence of the car as they drove past the aformentioned idiot in a little blue smart car zooming down the lane next to them.

Pete glanced down at the middle of the seat and saw that Mikey's fingers were just barely brushing his own.

\--

By the time Lindsey and her slightly worried entourage of passengers had reached Hayley's house, she had successfully managed to wish eternal damnation on four teenagers with sagging jeans, praise Jesus for giving her a green light, and wish nothing but good days on a sweet, grey-haired couple that cussed out yet another teenager after he tried to catcall their grandaughter.

Everyone but Hayley and Lindsey had climbed out of the car with quaking fingers and confusion as to why and how Lindsey Ballato had acquired a driver's license in the first place. The girls walked to the front door, giggling uncontrollably at some unspoken joke, occasionally leaning close together, which caused their hair to sweep into the other's tresses and create an orange and black Halloween tie-dye.

"Be good, boys," Hayley called from the front porch, raising her eyebrows in a slightly suggestive manner.

"We will!" Mikey answered. He hung his head out of the open door, holding onto the eloquently dubbed "oh, crap" handle.

"Not you two," Hayley clarified. "Your brother and his fiance. I  _know_  that you and Pete will be good for them."

Gerard rolled his eyes as he hopped into the driver's seat and fastened the seatbelt. "Don't worry, we'll be back by midnight at the latest. Okay  _Mom_?"

"Gerard Arthur Way," Lindsey started, but Gerard shut the door before she could finish her sentence. Mikey watched her lips press into a bright red line as Gerard smirked in the rearview mirror and shifted into reverse, pulling out of the gravel driveway.

\--

"Ry, oh my god,  _stop_ ," Brendon bit back giggles and felt his cheeks flush pink.

"What? This?" Ryan wrapped his arms around Brendon's waist and leaned over his shoulder, kissing Bredon's cheek.

" _Yeah_ ," Brendon answered in an awkwardly high-pitched voice. "We're in  _public_."

"So?" Ryan asked. "Let 'em see us. We're just like any other adorably domestic gay couple passing through the grocery store to restock our coffee supply."

There was no one else in the aisle at the moment, and they were in the next city over, but Brendon still worried that his aunt would somehow appear and grab him, dragging him to the car and drivng back to the town. He would most definitely get a lecture about how "I did  _not_  sign up to watch your sorry ass disappear and show up whenever you wanted, you hear me you ungrateful child?" And then Brendon would get smacked upside the head and cut up with a beer bottle and sent to his room.

"What'cha thinking 'bout, Bren?" Ryan asked. He still had not let go of Brendon's waist and they were lightly swaying in the middle of the aisle, Ryan's chin resting on Brendon's shoulder while they tried to find better coffee grounds for the comic shop.

"I'm afraid that my aunt is going to show up, even though I know that it's totally improbable," Brendon admitted, leaning back into Ryan's chest.

Ryan's arms tightened around Brendon's waist, hugging him closer and nudging his head into the crook of Brendon's neck, giving him little fairy kisses along his collarbone. "Aw, babe," he mumbled into the warm skin. "You're going to be okay, you know that? We're far away from her right now. We can be whatever we want, even if it's only for a few hours."

Brendon wished that Ryan could hold him like this forever. Brendon was just a kid, a kid with a fucked up backstory and a fucked up reality and he tried to drown himself in cigarrettes and cheap alcohol to forget what that meant for his future. And Ryan, Ryan was a faraway daydream that he still was not quite sure was more than just that - a wisp of cloud that had somehow become real and physical for Brendon to hold on to with slick fingers and a heart that could beat faster than a racehorse's hooves on the track.

And yet, for all that much of a dream that Ryan was, he was real and he was there and he liked Brendon. A  _lot_.

And Brendon liked Ryan more than a lot. He liked Ryan more than any of his vices and over all of his virtues, or what remained of them.

"I should give you my address," Ryan mumbled behind Brendon's ear. "Then you could come over whenever your aunt gets really shitty to you. We could watch movies in my room, and like, cuddle and shit."

Brendon turned around in Ryan's arms to face his, well, his  _boyfriend_ , and pressed two packages of coffee grounds to Ryan's chest. "You'll have to try harder than  _that_  to get me in your bedroom," he smirked, rolling his eyes before letting go of the foil wrapped ground up beans.

"Brendon -" Ryan tried to say, but Brendon had already moved out of the way and left Ryan to struggle to hold the coffee while Brendon grinned from a few feet away, watching with a shit-eating smile.

"We're just an adorably domestic gay couple getting our coffee?" He asked mischieviously, his impish grin spreading infectiously to Ryan.

\--

Mikey and Pete were examining the bass guitars on the wall at the shop that Frank and Gerard had stopped at, blissfully unaware of the fact that one of their closest friends was currently playing homosexual hide and seek in the grocery store less than a block away.

"I'm telling you Pete, my bass is going to look a hell of a lot cooler than these," Mikey said, motioning eratically to the black and brown guitars hanging on the wall. His glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose, seeing a s he had done nothing but jumped up and down excitedly as they entered the store and broke off into different pairs; Frank and Gerard were just a few racks away from them, looking at the regular six-string guitars.

"Your bass lookes nothing like these, Mikey," Pete answered, only half paying attention as he examined the instruments.

Mikey groaned from Pete's left. "Not the bass I have  _now_ ," he clarified. Pete could feel the bitchface that Mikey was currently pulling. "The one I'm goin to design when I'm famous."

"What's it going to look like then?" Pete asked, his eyes catching a shiny black bass with a red pickguard.

"It's going to be silver, but large-flake silver, so they can catch all the lights as I play. And it's going to have black racing stripes in the bottom corner, because I think that they look really cool. And it would smoke all of these guitars when it comes to just looking awesome."

"Is that so, Mikey Way?" Pete asked as he examined his new love interest that was currently hanging on the wall. "Tell me, do you think that this one would fit my style?" He leaned towards the bass, indicating which one he wanted.

Mikey inspected the instrument, overreacting the examination. Finally, he came to a conclusion. "Yeah, I think it would work for you."

"Think what would work for him?"

The two boys turned around to face Frank and Gerard, who had snuck up on them. Frank looked extremely pleased to be in the music store, and Gerard just looked at ease. Pete could see how they had worked out, and he half-wished, half-hoped that maybe, just maybe, the gods of love and high school crushes would take pity on him and allow him a chance like that with Mikey Way.

"Pete really likes this bass," Mikey answered, pointing to the red and black guitar. "He wanted to know if it looked good with his style."

"Hell yeah," Frank said, all gung-ho about it. To be fair, it would definitely work with Pete's look of the cool punk rocker.

Gerard rolled his eyes lovingly. "Are you ready for lunch?"

"I'm starving," Mikey answered. "Let's make like Transformers and roll out."

\--

Fate was one of those things that liked to wind up as much trouble as possible and then let the demolition ensue. It had a talent for throwing all of the worst people into the strangest situations at the most inconvenient times and making sure that the only thing the weatherman would be reporting was the massive fucking shitstorm that was inevitably caused by the hectic pandemonium.

It liked to rile up its unsuspecting victims and make them feel comfortable before all hell broke loose in their previously tidy and clean worlds. It liked whirlwind emotions and maybe a little bit of daunting worry, and hell, why not throw a pinch of danger into the mix? If it was precariously balanced on the verge of fear and terror, it was fate's best friend.

And, of course, fate had a funny little knack for making sure that its talent would not go to waste, no, that simply would not do. So naturally, fate decided that a small convergence in the lives of friends could never turn out horribly wrong, right? If no one actually  _confronted_  each other, then no real harm was done.

And fate, in all of its layers of mischief and confusion, chose the little fifties themed diner on Graham Boulevard to be the stage for its next act.

In one corner, sitting in the red vinyl booth and waiting for their drinks sat the Way brothers and their respective partners. Gerard was very aware of Frank's hand resting just ever so slightly on his thigh in a  _very_  suggestive manner as he talked with Pete and Mikey. Mikey Way, on the other hand, was trying to hold a conversation with Gerard and Frank about school.

"... Yeah, school is actually pretty fun," Mikey said, chattering away like a bird. Or the elderly when a new fruit pudding was added to the menu. "I have this teacher, Mr. Mullins, and he's really great. And I have his class with two of my friends, Charr and Brendon, and they both are really funny but also kind of rude, but you make friends with who you can, you know?"

"Well, I mean -" Gerard tried to edge a word in but Mikey was not finished yet.

"I mean, they're all friends with Pete here too," Mikey continued on like it was the last time he would ever speak. Pete nearly fell out of his chair though. Mikey yammered on nonchalantly, but as soon as he had said that Brendon and Charr were his friends Mikey had grabbed Pete's hand under the table, interlocking their fingers.

"You have a lot to say, don't you, Mikes?" Frank asked, grinning widely.

"Well,  _yeah_ ," Mikey said incredulously. "I haven't seen you guys in  _forever_."

Frank chortled and shook his head. "No, I suppose that you haven't. How's that bass playing coming along?"

Mikey smiled sheepishly and blush dusted his cheeks. "I, well, I haven't been playing it. I-I'm sorry."

Frank's face fell.

"But I have music at school," Mikey said brightly. "And Mr. Dun has one in his room, and it sounds really great, and I played the song that Gee wrote about Grandma, and my teacher said that it was great, and another friend, Joe, he really liked it too."

Frank grinned again, or really, he smiled, showing all of his teeth. "Did you hear that, Gee? They really enjoyed your song."

"Nah," Gerard bit his lower lip and shrugged. "They liked the way that Mikey played it."

"Pete plays bass too," Mikey declared, setting the change of subject out like fine china during a party. He gave Pete's fingers a gentle squeeze of encouragement and smiled.

"Uh, yeah. I do. Play bass. I play bass as well," Pete stammered out, not caught entirely off guard by the spotlight that had been placed on him. He felt the blood rush to his face and his cheeks go hot from embarrassment. Pete felt like a glitch in life's programming right then, like he was supposed to be somewhere else.

"That's cool, man," Frank said affably, his grin managing to get even wider. "You got your own instrument?"

Pete shook his head as he looked down at the faux granite tabletop. It was black with chips of white, making a tiny galaxy across the smooth top. "Can't afford one."

"That sucks, Pete," Frank replied. "But hey, maybe you'll get one for a celebration of some kind, yeah?"

Pete shrugged. He wished that he could get a bass, but he had lost hope after the Christmas that he was fourteen. He knew that Hayley could not afford it, and neither could he.

"I have to use the bathroom," Mikey announced into the awkward silence that had very suddenly wrapped itself around their table. He stood up and made a little head motion at Pete, asking if he was going to follow him or not. Pete decided that following Mikey would be easier than having to make small talk with Frank and Gerard for five minutes and stood as well.

Once inside the bathroom, Mikey sat on the edge of the sink and grinned at Pete. "You okay now?" He asked.

"What do you mean?" Pete asked, a little defensively if you asked Mikey, but no one was asking Mikey, so it did not matter.

"Seemed a bit nervous there, hmm?" Mikey answered. He pushed himself off from the counter and pulled Pete into a hug. Pete's nose squished up against Mikey's shoulder, and for a fleeting moment Pete wondered if he could get stilts so that this problem would not persist.

Pete sighed against Mikey's shoulder. "Yeah. Stuff like this is so nerve wracking, it fucks with my head."

"Aw, Pete," Mikey said into the shorter's temple. "You're doing great. Keep it up."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Mikey," Pete replied, probably a lot more sarcastically than he meant to. "Really inspired me."

"Well, what do you want me to say?" Mikey asked, letting go of Pete. "What could be more inspiring than "keep it up"? "Don't worry, Pete, my brother and his fiancé  _don't_  want to kill you"! I feel as though that would make you more afraid than pepped up." He walked back to the sink to wash his hands for some unknown reason. They had finished their food about an hour ago, along with watching Mikey and Gerard debate over whether the meal they had gotten was called "linner" or "dunch". In the end, Frank's option of "it's good food just eat it and stop talking" won.

As Mikey dried his hands, a toilet flushed. Both Pete and Mikey froze, making panicked eye contact as the opening of the door echoed in the nearly empty restroom and the person in the stall walked out. Both Pete and Mikey could have sworn that their hearts stopped as a familiar set of dirty Converse and a lavender hoodie emerged from behind the corner where the stalls were.

You see, fate just  _had_  to have some drama. Of course life would have been easier if neither of the three teenagers standing in the nicely tiled, vaguely Spanish themed for some reason bathroom knew each other, but that would not be any fun now, would it? So fate threw a mess together and wondered if it would cancel out and clean itself up.

" _Brendon_?"

\--

Ryan knew the downtown area extremely well, so he decided that, after making an impromptu stop at the grocery store to get more coffee, he would take Brendon out to lunch. While the two had been overly domestic to the point of grossness at the store, they finally managed to buy some not so cheap Guatemalan coffee because, hey, why not have good coffee for good people to drink? The cashier gave them a funny look, but what the hell. Being gay in public was fun. Scaring the homophobic assholes was fun. Also just hanging out with Brendon was fun, so why not show off his favorite pastime?

Now, they had been sitting in the diner for the past two hours, and Ryan still could not wrap his head around just how he had been graced with the embodiment of sassy gay sunshine sitting across the table from him that was Brendon Urie.

"I've got to use the restroom," Brendon said quietly, standing slowly and stretching his arms a bit. "I'll be back."

"I didn't think that you would leave me so soon," Ryan grinned.

Brendon rolled his eyes. "See you in a few minutes, dork."

Ryan was left feigning mock offense as Brendon turned on his heel and walked off to the bathroom.

Just a few fleeting moments later, Brendon was finishing up in the toilet when he heard two more people walk into the bathroom.

"You okay now?" A voice asked.

Brendon knew that voice. He could not for the life of him figure out how or where he knew the voice, but it was familiar. Soft and kind, maybe a hint of a hidden smirk, but god, where was it from?

"What do you mean?" Another voice answered defensively, though whoever it was probably meant it in a much less offended tone. Brendon knew  _that_  voice too. What the hell. Where the hell were these strangely familiar voices coming from. He didn't have a schizophrenic prayer. He didn't have a death wish. Brendon was happy, he was smiling, he was "good to go". The voices only came when he felt that he was not good enough, and god, with Ryan Ross, Brendon felt like the world would have never turned on its axis without him. Ryan Ross, who was sitting in a red vinyl chair, waiting for Brendon to return so that they could do cutesy couple thing without anyone finding out. Ryan Ross, who knew that Brendon was a mess but was willing to clean him up. And Ryan Ross, who wasn't everything that Brendon had wished for, and that was okay, because sometimes the least of what you wanted was the only thing you needed.

So Brendon decided, with this careful bathroom contemplation, that he should go and wash his hands and brave the possibly real, but perhaps fake people that were discussing pep talks in more detail than was really necessary. He opened the stall door and walked around the corner only to be stopped in his footsteps by the two people that he had been betting would date with Charr.

" _Brendon_?" They asked in unison, both hoodie clad boys making a creepily similar face of confusion.

Fate was having a motherfucking  _field_   _day_.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Brendon asked, his heart beating soundly, solidly inside of his chest.

"What the hell are  _you_  doing here?" Pete asked. They could have been in a cheesy sitcom, with a stupid laugh track full of dead people's voices and the confusion of seeing each other in a city over where there was supposed to be nothing but anonymity would still be the realist shit that any of the three teenagers standing in the ungodly orange bathroom had felt in a while.

Screw the field day, it was the fucking Olympic Games for fate.

Brendon blinked his eyes nervously, and cool sweat just barely coated the back of his neck. "I, uh, I... Ryan and I, and coffee, and lunch...." He stuttered out the situation in no real order.

"Oh..." Mikey said, nodding his head. "Have fun then. Pete and I are here with my brother and his fiancé. Hope your day goes well."

And without another word, Brendon Urie watched two of his closest friends interlock fingers and leave him all alone in the bathroom to do nothing but wash his hands. He wondered if Charr still remembered the bet, because she now currently owed him fifty dollars. Somehow, Brendon had expected more gayness when Pete and Mikey finally started dating, but what can you expect from two nerds with their likes?

When he got back to their little table, Ryan smiled like he had feared that he would never see Brendon again.

"I thought you had fallen into the toilet," Ryan commented as Brendon sat down.

"Nope. Just spent a little too much time looking in the mirror," Brendon answered.

"Well, you look utterly killer, so I wouldn't worry." Ryan's smile was killer. He genuinely meant what he said, and Brendon wondered if the tidal wave in his stomach was what love felt like.

\--

Hours later, Mikey Way and Pete Wentz were laying in bed together. Contrary to the belief that all gay males seemed to have sex as often as possible, they had done nothing but hold hands and stare dreamily about the other's face. Gerard and Frank were sleeping in a guest bedroom, and Hayley and Lindsey were having a "sleepover" in Hayley's room.

Mikey stared at Pete's face, the contours of his jaw, the way that his ears pointed ever so slightly, and his eyes, oh lord his eyes. The way his eyeliner was soaked into the crevices below them and rubbed away from its original intentions like chimney smoke sticking to the chimney sweep, and the way that they reflected the dim lighting of the room like the Tiger's Eye polished rocks that Mikey used to get from the vacationing grocery store employees and that one time with Ray. Every single little faux velvet bag was still on their shelf in his room at Ray's house, collecting dust. But Pete's eyes were not the only pretty part about his face. His forgotten eyeliner framed his eyes like a strangely painted picture, in a way that Mikey loved. He loved Pete's eyes and eyeliner, his pointed ears and muscles, and the way that he wanted nothing but the best for everyone. And he loved that Pete was content to stay in bed with him, half asleep, stuck in between dreams and reality for a while, together with fingers intertwined.

"You okay, Mikey Way?" Pete asked, a soft grin playing at his lips.

Mikey nodded. His eyelids felt heavy from the excitement of the day, from finally getting Pete out of the hospital to seeing Brendon in the restroom of a strange restaurant that he did not even know the name of. And now, Mikey just wanted to sleep.

He felt a soft pressure on the tip of his nose and opened eyes that he had not even known were closed. Mikey saw Pete at a ridiculously close proximity as Pete kissed Mikey's nose gently. He tilted his head up, slipping his nose away from Pete and replacing it with his lips to form a chaste kiss. "Better, Pete?" Mikey asked, a sleepy smile spreading in his face as his eyes closed once again.

Pete was hesitant at first; he did not want to take advantage of Mikey and do something that Mikey might regret on the morning, even if it was just one kiss. But Mikey seemed pleased by this small change of events, as he wasn't trying to push the kiss any further, and in that moment, Pete decided that he really fucking liked Mikey Way. He liked him now more than the first time he had seen Mikey standing on the front porch, tired, nervous, and oddly protective of his guitar case, with a beanie yanked too far down over his straightened hair. More than the time Pete had seen Mikey look adorable while he slept and decided that he was definitely kind of a creep. Yeah, Pete definitely liked Mikey in a not so platonic way. But it seemed that Mikey liked him back, and that was the important part.

"Pete?" Mikey asked, moving his lips away. "I didn't do something that you didn't want, right? Are you okay?" He asked softly.

"No, no, you didn't do anything, Mikey. Just caught me by surprise is all," Pete assured Mikey. He let go of Mikey's hand and draped his arm of Mikey's torso, subsequently pulling Mikey closer in a way that both of them were totally okay with.

Mikey leaned over again, catching Pete's lips in another soft kiss, and this time neither one hesitated. Before they knew it, the little show of affection had turned into a full fledged make out session as Pete sat up against the headboard and pulled Mikey up onto his lap for no other purpose than the fact that Mikey was more asleep than Pete was and he didn't want Mikey to get crushed. A few moments of wanton, breathy kisses and fingers tangling through each other's hair followed, which was totally okay, because that's what everybody does on a Sunday night, and come on, who doesn't make out with their significant other on a school night?

Mikey looked so damn perfect, Pete realized as Mikey lay his head down on Pete's shoulder. He was wearing that stupid Joy Division shirt that he had been wearing the first day they had met, and a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms, but it didn't change the fact that Mikey was the prettiest boy Pete had ever seen.

"What are you thinking about, Pete?" Mikey asked, having caught a bit of his breath back from the beautiful dark eyes boy that had stolen it. "Was that better than the first kiss?"

Pete grinned and wrapped his arm around Mikey.

"Much better, Mikey Way."


	18. A Polyamorous Relationship With Ed Sheeran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look i updated! i love this story so much but sometimes i just can't write, but i did now, so i hope you like it!

Mikey had been at the Home for three months. In that amount of time, he'd gotten a whole new wardrobe that consisted of more than two pairs of jeans, a group of friends that would kill for each other, and a boyfriend. Gerard and Frank had left the week after Pete got back from the hospital, with the promise of Skype calls and messages so that Mikey knew they were alive. Gerard had painted this incredible picture of Hayley, and promised that he'd mail it later. The couple also had a photo of Pete and Mikey standing outside of the Home in the grass, some artistic crap that had involved twenty minutes of posing and Gerard angling the camera far more than was necessary. It was by the fiances' bed, on the dresser. Mikey knew because he'd seen it during one of the video chats.

"Mikey!" We're going out!" Hayley sang up the stairs. "Put on something decent and come down!"

Mikey groaned in complete teenage angst as he shut down Pete's laptop and and rolled off of the bed and shuffled to the door. "What if I don't want to go anywhere? And what counts as decent?"

"Don't use that tone of voice with me, young man. We're going shopping," Hayley answered back. "As for the second question, as long as you don't show your genitalia in public, I really don't care."

"Wear a skirt, Mikeyway!" Pete shouted probably from the kitchen, where he was supposed to be cleaning the mess that he'd caused during breakfast.

Mikey groaned. "Who's we?" He asked Hayley, hoping that Pete would get the message that he was in fact, ignoring him.

He heard Hayley sigh loudly. "Pete's coming with Lindsey and I, and I felt that he would be more inclined to pick out groceries if you would come with us."

"No I won't!" Pete yelled, a piece of dishware clattering against the counter top.

"Oh, yes you will, Pete," Hayley said threateningly. "And don't break anything, dammit."

"I'm going to be flirting with my boyfriend! No time for groceries! Well, except for you know, a cucumber or something."

"Pete Wentz, I am asexual and you will not get anything of that nature near me!" Mikey shouted from the bedroom. He grumbled under his breath about Pete as he walked over to the closet and blindly pulled out a t-shirt and a probably clean pair of jeans, slipping them on as he glanced around the room for his Green Day sweatshirt, the one that Gerard had an identical match to. He heard Hayley scoff from the foot of the stairs as he slipped on his shoes and made his way down.

Hayley grinned and ruffled Mikey's hair when he passed her. He shook out of the way of her fingers, muttering a "stop it, mom."

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "Go tell Pete to get in the car, Lindsey and I just have to tell Bert and James to watch out for everyone."

Mikey shrugged and wandered to the kitchen.

\--

"You're half Jamaican? How come you never fucking told me?"

Pete shrugged as Mikey stared at him, clutching his hands to his chest like an eighties movie teenager and his mouth agape in what could only be described as comical. His hair wasn't in Grease -esque pigtails, something that Pete was grateful for, though not entirely opposed to seeing. "It isn't exactly a point of interest for people."

They had been in the car for fucking ever, seeing as Hayley and Lindsey, who were totally gal pals and definitely not hugging each other longer than what was necessary by societal standards. They were talking about Pete's breakfast catastrophe, which had been an adventure within itself, as Mikey soon discovered that Pete was apparently unable to make scrambled eggs, even if there was a WikiHow with pictures added for extra instruction. Not to say that there wasn't reward in trying, but Hayley had lectured at them in a very motherly tone whilst the kitchen emitted a smell that was akin to burnt rubber. Mostly, she rambled about she needed milk, and a new toaster, and how Pete had managed to lose all of the lemons that had been in the bowl next to the window.

What had started them on the conversation was relatively simple. Pete had asked if Gerard's hair was naturally the shade of raven black that he had been sporting at the hospital and during their day out, and Mikey shook his head and smiled. "Nah, he just dyes it. Like, a lot. It's been black and red, and blue, and blond, and white, and even brown once upon a time. He just likes to change it up, is all."

Pete had shrugged his shoulders then as well. "I can't argue, though mine has only been brown, or black, and during freshman year it had red streaks in it. It's a hassle though, because it gets curly if I don't straighten it. Comes with being half Jamaican, I guess." Pete conveniently left out the time during the summer of eighth grade when he'd had dreadlocks, and hoped to keep it that way.

And that was how they had ended up on the topic of Pete Wentz and how pretty much everyone forgot that he was biracial.

Mikey shook his head and ran his fingers through Pete's not curly or straight but definitely straighter than Mikey Way hair. Pete grinned contentedly and wrapped his arms around Mikey, pulling him into a kiss. It was a dumb, chaste, completely cheesy kiss, no tongue or teeth or spit really, but Mikey was smiling, and Pete was smiling and both wondered just how they had managed to find the perfect person in the most imperfect place. Granted, most love stories don't exactly start with "I met you father when he showed up on the steps of the mental health home", but come on. You have to start somewhere. People fall in love in mysterious ways, as Ed Sheeran put it. But Pete was not thinking about Ed Sheeran, and neither was Mikey, or at least, Pete didn't think that Mikey was thinking about Ed Sheeran. He didn't know for sure. If there was one thing Pete was sure about though, it was that Ed Sheeran was not dating Mikey, and he was in fact not being kissed by Mikey, and he definitely was not laying in bed and cuddling with Mikey. That would be awkward, though Pete wasn't exactly against a polyamorous relationship with Ed Sheeran.

Thoughts of Ed Sheeran aside, Mikey stopped peppering Pete's cheek with kisses and unbuckled his seat belt, wrapping his arm around Pete's torso, curling up and resting his head in the crook of Pete's neck, and Pete cuddled next to Mikey, turning and pressing their noses together. Mikey squinted his eyes shut, his cheeks blushing furiously.

He ran his fingertips along the small area of skin that had appeared when Pete's shirt had ridden up while he adjusted the seat belt before gently pushing the fabric up, exposing more of Pete's torso, grinning when he felt Pete's breathing increase. Mikey bit his lower lip gently, far too certain of the thoughts that were running through Pete's mind. He was pretty sure that they involved a lot less clothing, and a lot more dick sucking, but Mikey didn't suck dick, regardless of whether or not he was dating the person to which the aforementioned dick belonged to.

Not that he had ever dated anyone with a dick before. Or without a dick. Mikey didn't date anyone, dicks or lack thereof. Up until Pete, Mikey had thought he would never date anyone, but that was apparently not the case. He knew that he was asexual, but he still wasn't quite clear on that part of his sexuality or romantic orientation or whatever it was. What Mikey did know was that he liked Pete, and Pete liked him, and they were technically boyfriends, and that meant that Mikey could technically do what he was planning and then be cute, because Pete would forgive him and they would kiss and probably fall asleep on the bed together later.

Mikey smirked a little to himself, before leaning over Pete's stomach and blowing a massive raspberry into the skin.

"Mikey!" Pete shrieked, jerking away as much as the seat belt would let him. "What the hell!"

Mikey scooted backwards until his back rested against the door, laughing hard enough to make his stomach hurt.

"You," Pete said seriously, pointing at his boyfriend,"are an asshole."

Smile still plastered on his face, Mikey managed to grin even wider. "I'm your asshole, baby."

"My asshole, huh?" Pete answered, raising his eyebrow.

"Only personality, Wentz, let's not get overzealous here," Mikey replied smoothly.

Pete rolled his eyes and the car door locks clicked up as Hayley and Lindsey finally stopped hugging like total gal pals and decided that they should maybe take Pete and Mikey to the grocery store and get food for the next two weeks.

\--

"I'm serious, Dall, I think he's the one."

Dallon Weekes laid on top of his comforter, his best friend of ten years next to him, talking about boys while they stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. Brendon was convinced that this Ryan guy was his knight in too-tight skinny jeans, and frankly, Dallon was too, seeing as he'd saved a drunk Brendon from wandering aimlessly around the park until some creep found him and decided that a teenage boy was good enough. Dallon didn't know what he would do if that happened to another of his friends.

"Dall, have you been listening?"

Dallon looked over at Brendon with wide eyes. "No, uh, sorry Bee," he said sheepishly.

Brendon looked at Dallon, concern in his eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah...." Dallon answered slowly. "Why?"

Brendon lowered his voice. "You're not using again, are you?"

Dallon froze for a splint second. "What the -? God, no, Bee. I won't do any of that shit ever again. I wouldn't do that to you ever again. I can't put you through that again."

Brendon threw his arms around Dallon, hugging him tightly. "I would do it all again for you, Dall. But you never have to go through it again. It's been almost a year. And I'm not a shit friend who's snorting cocaine at sixteen anymore while you're passed out in the bathroom."

The moment wasn't meant to be emotional, but Brendon worried so much about Dallon. His best friend was the reason he'd quit the drugs, his best friend was the reason that he'd dragged his crackhead ass to a rehab center, his best friend was the reason that he was alive. 

"God, I worry about you so much," Brendon said, his voice muffled by Dallon's shooulder.

"Me too, Bee, me too," Dallon sighed. "I don't want you ever going back to what you did. I couldn't ever be the same without you."

"Nope," Brendon agreed. He lifted his pinky to Dallon's and hooked them together, something that they'd been doing since they were six years old, when they'd both fallen out of the apple tree in Dallon's backyard and had gotten matching casts for their broken arms. They'd linked pinkies in the back of Mrs. Weekes car, all the way to the emergency room and hadn't let go until Brendon's mom picked him up from Dallon's house after the whole ordeal.

Dallon curled his pinky, sealing the deal of staying alive with his much shorter friend. "Now," Dallon said seriously. "Tell me about this Ryan."

Brendon sat up with a shy smile. "You sound like Charr."

Dallon shrugged. "She knows her stuff about relationships."

Brendon raised his eyebrows. "Helloo? Dall? You're agreeing with Charr? Where did my best friend go?"

"On vacation," Dallon answered with a grin. "Now, please tell me about Ryan? I want to know," he whined.

"Fine," Brendon said, leaning closer. "He's super sweet, like, he never shuts up with complimenting me, and he's constantly wants me to go over his house and just hang out, but you know, with my aunt and all..."

"Your aunt is a horrible person, and I'm going to turn her in to the police," Dallon said seriously.

"Please don't," Brendon said quickly. "I won't have a place to stay."

Dallon sighed deeply. "Bee, you know for a fact that my mom would let you stay here as her own son. Just let me turn her in and you won't have to go through any of this shit anymore."

"Dall, I know you care about me, but I need that house. Your mom would have to go through all of the adoption papers and checks, and I'm going to be eighteen in a few months, and it won't matter. I'll come to live with you when I can get a solid job at the comic shop with Ry, and I can pay for groceries and everything that you guys do for me," Brendon told Dallon. "Please, I'll be fine. Like I said, I can get out in a few months, and then I'll be in the clear."

Dallon felt his heart sink. He knew that Brendon wasn't the smartest person, but Dallon felt that he needed to watch out for his friend, and dammit, if that meant calling the cops the next time Brendon called with fear in his voice and glass crashing in the background, then so be it. 

But now was not the time to think about the abuse that Brendon was waiting through so that he could get out and make a better life for himself. Now was time to gossip about cute boys that Brendon was apparently dating and completely forgot to tell Dallon about for three fucking months. 

"Anyway, how did telling me about your boyfriend slip your mind for three months?" Dallon asked Brendon seriously.

"I told you, I just forgot!" Brendon exclaimed. "I've been a bit busy actually going to school for once and realizing that it's still boring. And we haven't hung out in a while."

"That's because Ryan is always taking you to lunch and you never come over anymore," Dallon pointed out. He didn't mean to sound condescending, but honestly, if Brendon was going to get into a technically illegal relationship with a guy three years older than him, Dallon expected that he would be the first to know.

Brendon rolled his eyes and sighed over-dramatically. "I know that I should hang out with you guys more, but Ryan is just like, there all the time and he's got a car."

Dallon rolled his eyes. "I don't blame you for wanting to hang out with your boyfriend. I just want to know that you're okay. And I'm sorry that I don't have a car. Also, do you want to stay over tonight? We can order pizza and watch shitty movies. And gossip about boys."

"Hell yes, Dall. That sounds great," Brendon answered with all the excitement of his six year old self. "You have to tell me if you have any guys or girls who are catching your fancy, though."

Dallon felt himself blush. 

Brendon's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "Oh my god! You do have a thing for someone!"

"I do not!" Dallon shot back, the blush climbing his cheeks.

"Who is it?" Brendon asked, grabbing one of Dallon's pillows and hugging it to his chest. "Is it Sarah?"

"No. I don't have a thing for anyone." Dallon was trying to force his blush away from his face, and failing horribly, because Brendon clearly did not believe that he was completely crush-free. Regardless, Dallon was not about to drop the fact that he may have a teeny tiny, itty bitty, super small, minuscule crush on one adorable little Patrick Stump.

\--

The fluorescent lights in the grocery store were far too bright, even though it was noon and October. Mikey hypothesized that it was because there were ugly-ass, dirty off-white tiles to reflect the already gross light that bathed the entire building in brightness.

"Why are we here?" Pete whined, slumping his shoulders and sulking as they walked through the automatic doors. Mikey remembered pretending to use the Force with Gerard when he was twelve and Gee was sixteen and they would walk to work in the morning.

"Because it's Halloween in a week and we need candy," Hayley answered as she grabbed a basket from the stack by the door. "Also, you and Mikey never eat anything the school offers, so you may as well go pick out stuff that you want to eat for lunch." her phone pinged, no doubt that the message was an update from Bert and James, and Hayley checked it as she waved Mikey and Pete off in search of lunch items that did not have to be cooked, because Mikey certain that his boyfriend was the type of person who microwaved foil.

Pete grabbed a basket and Mikey's arm and dragged him into the nearest aisle. "Do we need pickles?" Pete asked, looking at the jars of small cucumbers.

"Do you put them on your sandwiches?" Mikey asked back, debating on the pickles as well. He felt that this was a serious subject, even during October, with Halloween next week, and Mikey had no idea what his costume was going to be.

"No, but they're good to grab and put in a baggie. But only if they're the sweet pickles. Dill pickles are kind of gross," Pete answered himself. He grabbed the cheapest jar of sweet pickles, set it in the basket, and started down the aisle once again, Mikey close behind.

They spent the next hour and a half going through lunch foods until they met up with gal pals of the year, Hayley and Lindsey, in the giant section that was devoted to seasonal displays. A skeleton in a deep purple robe stood at the center of a well-organized stack of fun-size candy bags, on a throne of orange and black sodas. Hayley had filled her entire basket up to the handles with family size bags of seasonal sweets. Lindsey just looked at the boys with defeat painted across her face. 

"I tried to talk her out of this much candy," Lindsey said dejectedly. "I really did."

Pete shook his head. "You of all people should know that you can't talk Hayley out of anything that she sets her mind to."

Lindsey just nodded weakly. Hayley smiled and bobbed her head, the orange and blue hair bouncing with her. She stopped on a whim though, and reached into her pocket to check her phone.

"We should get to check out," Hayley said, switching the subject and slipping her phone back into place. "Bert and James are getting antsy."

Pete nodded in agreement. "My arms are getting tired too." 

Their small grocery store group walked to the cash registers and stood in line, glancing at the covers of magazines to see what nefarious acts the latest famous people had done, because god forbid someone wear the wrong color to an awards show or forget to eat at a popular restaurant. Maybe someone was suddenly rebelling by bleaching their hair. When they got to the register, Pete put the basket on the counter and nodded at the cashier, who seemed to pause for a moment. Pet felt like he recognized the older man from somewhere, but he couldn't quite place it. God, he looked so familiar, almost as if he were a cousin, or an uncle that he'd only seen for the first five years of his life. Perhaps the cashier was thinking about the same things, because he couldn't seem to stop stealing glances at Pete as he was ringing up the food, or when Hayley was paying.

"Excuse me," the cashier said, his voice sounding weary. His eyes looked like they had carried the weight of the world. "I just have to say that you look a lot like I imagine my son would have at your age. I haven't seen him in over ten years, but he would probably look a lot like you."

Pete stuttered. Why on earth was this man saying that? He finished packing the candy bags into a paper bag and stammered out a "thank you, I, uh, I think." He grabbed one bag and handed the other off to Mikey, and Hayley grinned at the man sweetly before ushering them out to the car.

"What was that about?" Hayley asked, turning the ignition and checking to make sure that Pete and Mikey had their seat belts buckled.

Pete shrugged his shoulders. "I have no idea. I've never been told that I look like anyone's kid."

"Sometimes I hear people tell their kids that they don't want their kids to wear scary shirts like me," Mikey supplied, rather unhelpfully. Pete looked at him with a face that read nothing but confusion. Mikey looked back and shrugged.

Hayley backed out of the parking space and let another car into the lane before she pulled into the street and headed home.

"Maybe it's a compliment?" Hayley asked.

"Yeah, but the guy said that he imagined his son would have looked like Pete," Lindsey said. "Maybe he lost his son when the kid was still young and he's been searching ever since."

"What, like my dad didn't completely disappear and he's been looking for me for ten years? Can't he just ask the government where I am? And anyway, why couldn't he have found me when I was thirteen?" Pete asked, albeit sounding a little ruder than he should have, which probably was the intention. He was, admittedly, a little bitter that his dad had never bothered to find him after his mom was put in prison.

Hayley shifted lanes on the way to the Home. "By law, you had to be in my care until the government decided that your father was a stable person and had a consistent place to keep you, and was able to pay for therapy because you'd been in an abusive home for the first ten or so years of your life. But for whatever reason, they couldn't find your dad, and I was the safest place for you, because a foster home would have moved you too much and they considered you unstable."

"He left when I was six," Pete mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "And he spent the next years perfecting his disappearance rather than fighting for custody."

Mikey didn't quite know what to do with the information that Pete had just mumbled, but he leaned over and laid his head on Pete's shoulder as a way of comfort.

"What are you doing?" Pete asked, awkwardly twisting his face to see Mikey, who's eyes were closed as he rested. Hayley and Lindsey decided that it was best to let the boys have their own private gay moment, and passerby might have said that Lindsey and Hayley were also having a private gay moment, but they were just really good friends who also happened to be girls that shared a room.

"'M trying to make you happy again. I want smiley Pete back, not angry Pete."

"I'm not angry," Pete said softly. 

"Liar," Mikey answered.

Pete shook his head and a grin played on his face. He would have wrapped his arm around Mikey, except that it was currently squished beneath the aforementioned person. Not that Mikey weighed much, but he was still a teenage boy with mass that took up space, and currently he was taking up space on Pete's arm, and Pete was starting to feel his fingers going numb from the collective mass that was Mikey Way.

"I'm not angry anymore," he mumbled. "'Cause I got you to keep me company."

\--

Dallon was content.

He had a cheesy comedy in the DVD player and his best friend sleeping haphazardly on the arm of the sofa. The movie had been forgotten at least a half hour ago, as had the popcorn that was probably still in the microwave, but who really gave a fuck when the world actually seemed in place for once?

His best friend was safe for the night.

His mom was working late but she was bringing home tacos to make up for not being there.

He was reading a National Geographic rather than watching the television, but it didn't matter all that much.

Brendon's breathing hitched for a moment, and Dallon looked over to see hid brows furrowing into worry, or possibly fear. He sighed sadly to himself, wishing that he could do something about the nightmares that Brendon got. Brendon dealt with them by only sleeping if he was exhausted, but Dallon wanted to end them altogether. 

Brendon curled up into the fetal position, but his change of placement caused him to fall off of the sofa with a muffled thump.

"Ah-uh, oh man," Brendon muttered, looking up and locking eyes with Dallon.

"Another one?" Dallon asked sympathetically.

Brendon nodded. "Can I get something to drink?"

"No alcohol in the house, Bren," Dallon said. It was the norm, after he and his brother had horribly fucked up their lives with booze and pills. His mother didn't drink, he didn't drink, his brother sure as hell didn't drink, even if he was in college and no one monitored his habits.

"Damn."

Dallon got up and went to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water. "You can't just drink away the bad dreams, you know that, right?" He asked, setting the the glass on the coffee table.

Brendon took a drink, the cool water going down much more easily than alcohol ever would. "There's not much else I can do, Dall. And I know that they'd stop sooner rather than later if I left her house, but I don't want to discuss that right now."

Dallon didn't push it. He probably should have, but for the sake of friendship and movie nights, he stopped. He should have said that he was going to call the police. He should have told Brendon that he wasn't allowed to leave the house until he promised to get away from his aunt. Dallon Weekes should have said that he would call an Alcoholics Anonymous and threaten to send Brendon's aunt. Instead, he said "want to download a movie?"

And Brendon, who should have agreed to Dallon's unspoken begging to stay, who should have really have called the police on his aunt, who really should have shredded his fake ID by now, who should promise to stop his self-destructive habits without his fingers crossed behind his back, nodded in full agreement to Dallon's question.


	19. People With Condoms Come Pretty Damn Close

There were a lot of things that Mikey and Pete were doing Monday morning. Turning in weekend homework, catching up with friends who lived in town, and just generally being teenagers. Currently, they were sat in Mr. Joseph's first period English class, paying attention just enough to avoid being called on but not enough to really gather anything useful from the lesson. Mr. Joseph was rambling again, off on a tangent about how important it was for whatever poem they were studying to be ripped and split, and possibly written in three minutes or less. He usually lectured with a basic idea, but Pete wondered that perhaps he'd really just forgotten his lesson because he wasn't quite sure how writing three words to a line was going to improve the flow of his sentence structure, or what it had to do with poetry at all, but it didn't much matter, because half of class was already gone and Pete was on his way to having no English homework.

"Uh, Mr. Joseph? Why exactly to we have to write three words to a line?"

Pete followed the voice to one of his classmates, Zoey, who had gotten a haircut over the weekend and kind of looked like Mr. Dun now.

"Ah, yes," Mr. Joseph answered, stopping his ranting on the drop of a dime. "To challenge yourself, Zoey?"

Pete watched in confusion as she let a nearly audible shudder run through her body. "Actually, sir, it's Ry now. And I use they/them pronouns. As in, "they're pretty radical"."

Pete wondered if Z - Ry, was familiar with the modern slang, because "radical" had gone out of style a while ago, in his opinion.

Mr. Joseph curtly nodded his head. "Ry," he said slowly, testing the syllable. "Ry, Ry, Ry. They. Ry equals they. Cool."

A silence fell over the class. It was as if someone had announced that they were pregnant, but probably not, because that would probably cause a class discussion on why abstinence was the only 100 percent effective method but condoms probably came pretty damn close and now Pete was trying to suppress his laughter in the back of the room because with condoms, people did come pretty damn close.

"What are you losing your shit over?" Mikey whispered hoarsely, turning ever so slightly in his chair.

"Nothing, nothing," Pete said, brushing the question off. "Just a joke that Brendon would probably appreciate."

"Speaking of which, where is he?" Mikey had his brow furrowed as he pretended to pay attention to Mr. Joseph a little more. "You saw that he wasn't at the usual spot this morning, right?"

Looking back on it, Pete realized that Brendon had in fact, not been at their friend group's usual morning meet up, and neither had Dallon, for that matter.But he hadn't thought much of it; the two were best friends after all. Pete had just suspected that they were busy screwing with Dallon's math teacher or something.

Pete shrugged. "He's probably fine. He's got to be with Dallon,they're inseparable. Don't worry, okay?"

Even as he turned away, Pete knew that Mikey was chewing on his lower lip, a new reaction to stress that Pete was going to have to consult Hayley about. Pete knew that Mikey was a worrywart, but he tried to consul him as best he could. Brendon had to be fine. He'd been with Dallon, staying the night probably. Nothing bad could happen.

\--

Ryan was restless, the phone in his back pocket feeling like a thousand pounds. He had texted Brendon at least thirty times, and hadn't gotten a reply. He hadn't even gotten the notification that his messages had been read, for crying out loud. They'd been delivered, sure, but was Brendon ignoring him? Had he done something wrong? Where the hell was his boyfriend?

He practically jumped out of his skin when the bell on the comic shop's door jangled, letting him know that a customer had arrived.

"Hey, chillax, man, it's just me." Patrick, one of the kids from the high school, was in for work? 

"Sorry," Ryan said sheepishly, running his hand through his already messed up hair. "I've just been really stressed today. My boyfriend won't respond to my texts and I've been really worried. Is it three already?"

Patrick nodded, slipping into the back room to drop his backpack off and grab a can of soda from the mini-fridge. He reappeared, cracking the tab of the can and taking a drink. "Boyfriend, huh? Is he nice?"

Ryan grinned, leaning back against the display case that acted as the front counter.  "Yeah, he's the greatest person I've ever dated. I mean, he's got a little drinking habit, but he's gotten a lot better since we started dating. Sometimes he'll notice that the day's been slow and he'll buy a stack of comics, but I have no idea where he stores them."

Patrick's lips quirked up into a smile. "Cute. But uh, if you'll pardon me for asking, are you sure that he's not out at a, uh, a bar or something?"

Ryan shrugged and took his phone out of his back pocket, checking it for the thousandth time, but Patrick had a feeling that it was more. "When he does get drunk, he usually ends up texting or calling me. I listen, you know, to every word. He likes cats a lot."

That earned a snort from Patrick as the younger employee set his drink down and began adjusting the figurines in the shelves behind the counter. He put the Star Wars ones closer to the front and the Star Trek ones further back, wondering if any of the "older fans" would mutter about how  _offensive_  it was to put one strange alien race in front of a different alien race. Every now and then, Patrick would look over his shoulder, checking on Ryan. So far, he'd seen the older organize the same four stacks of comics and stare forlornly at his phone screen, but didn't want to impose on him. He wondered if he should have asked what the boyfriend's name was, but thought little of it. Ryan would probably have told him if it was important. Maybe he'd get introduced the next time the boyfriend came into the store.

\--

The knocking on his bedroom door was getting repetitive, but the last thing Dallon wanted to do was get up and drag his body to face his mother's questions. No, he was not doing alright. No, he did not want something to eat. No, he was not going to school. Yes, he was going to lay there all day and mope.

"Dallon James Weekes, if you do not open this door right now, I'm going to take it off of the hinges."

She was being forward this fine morning.

Dallon groaned into his pillow. The most movement that he made was to remove his arm from underneath his chest so that the pins-and-needles feeling would leave. The knocking became more insistent, so Dallon groaned louder.

"You're not hungover, are you?" His mother's voice stopped being angry and was suddenly very, very worried.

Dallon rolled onto his back, staring at his ceiling and picking out constellations in the popcorn stucco. 

"Dallon?"

"I'm not hungover, Mom," he answered. "Just moping."

He heard her sigh, or was that a breath of relief? "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly." Dallon wondered how pathetic he looked. Brendon disappeared and Spencer had asked if they were coming to school, because Brendon wasn't there and neither was Dallon, but everyone thought they were together and skipping school. 

"Well, I have to go to work. Please eat something at least. Maybe go outside and get the mail when it comes?" 

"Sure, Mom." Dallon had no intention of getting the mail, but making the promise would get his mom to leave for work, and stop worrying too much about him. She would fret more at home, and Dallon didn't want that. 

He could feel her at the door, her lips pressed into a thin line as she debated calling in sick. But she really need the money and she was certain that Dallon could care for himself. 

"Love you, honey."

"Love you too, Mom."

\--

"You know, I didn't ask your mother to make me your backup legal guardian."

Brendon kept his mouth shut as his aunt grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet roughly. He'd learned a while ago that it was easier to let her do what she would with him than to fight back and make it worse on himself. He stared at the wall in front of him, wishing that he could just go back to sleep, but his aunt was in one of her really pissed moods, and he was fairly certain that she was a little high, but it was better to just let it happen. She wasn't even the backup legal guardian for him, the social worker just looked for local family rather than moving Brendon away from his school. Since she didn't technically have any run-ins with the law, she was deemed a safe legal guardian, she just had to sign the paperwork. And she had, with the plastic grin that she wore daily.

"Get your gay ass downstairs in two minutes or you'll have a lot more coming to you than what I've already planned." She stormed out of his room and Brendon took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the hell that he was about to go through. He could go to Dallon's house later, even though he'd get another lecture about why he should call the police.

"Just a few more months," Brendon whispered encouragingly. His stomach turned.

"One minute!" His aunt's voice rang shrilly. 

Brendon shuffled down the stairs. "I'm here," he mumbled.

"In the kitchen," his aunt ordered. "Come sit down."

The feeling of nausea became incredible as Brendon plodded to the kitchen. His eyebrows raised at the sight of an array of bottles on the kitchen table, taking up most of the surface.

"Sit down, honey," his aunt said, sickly sweet, pulling out a chair. 

Brendon looked at her in worry, a storm brewing in his stomach, lurching and rolling. "Wh-why?" He asked, shakily approaching the chair and sitting in it. 

His aunt grinned down at him devilishly. "You want to go out and get drunk? Want to go out and make a fool of me and your parents? Want to ruin our reputations with your devotion to the bottle?"

"I-I," Brendon stuttered, words catching in his throat.

"You what? Don't drink? That's bullshit," his aunt barked. "Since you love alcohol so much, you get to live your dream."

Brendon's fear grew until it was ten times bigger than him, the voices in his head fighting with each and every insult they had ever thrown at him. His aunt's image towered over him, her grin plastered on his brain.

"Oh, sweetie, don't look so scared," his aunt pouted, her lower lip sticking out. "You're going to drink everything on this table, until I decide otherwise, okay?" She asked, talking to Brendon as if he were a small child again. In this moment, he had realized two things very quickly. The first, his aunt was fucking psychotic; the second, he now knew why his aunt was not allowed at family parties. 

"But what about alcohol poisoning?" Brendon asked, his voice shaking. 

His aunt shook her head and grabbed his chin between her thumb and forefingers and leaned in very close. "You're going to drink this until I fucking decide otherwise, okay? And you won't get poisoned alright? Don't worry your pretty little head, hm?" 

Brendon swallowed his protests and cast his attention to the arrangement of bitter liquids on the table. He reached slowly for the first bottle, and his aunt placed a glass in front of him.

\--

In the three hours that his mother had been gone, Dallon Weekes had manged to shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, and then the living room, where he now sat on the couch, staring blankly at the black television screen. His friends were probably at lunch right now, but frankly, Dallon felt that they'd ask too many questions. A mug of tea sat on the coaster next to him,  cold and alone, much like Dallon. He had wrapped a blanket around himself, but this was the cold that came with loss, the cold that radiated from your bones and slithered like a serpent through your whole body, keeping your heart trapped in a cage. 

"I should have checked on him," Dallon said monotonously. The words dropped to the floor, too heavy to hang in the air. He felt like lead weights had been tied to his heart. His phone buzzed on the table next to him, and Dallon felt like he'd exerted too much energy to even slide the notification across the screen.

_From: Mom_

_You can't blame yourself_

Can't blame himself? How Couldn't he? Dallon had blamed himself since the beginning. He should have called the police the first time Brendon came over with a bruise purpling against his cheek. He should have told his mom the day that Brendon puked in their toilet at three a.m. and slept in Dallon's room. He should have checked on Brendon last night, but he didn't, and now he didn't know where his best friend was, he'd gotten ten texts from Patrick asking where he was, and not even the thought of Patrick being worried about him was enough to make Dallon feel any less than sick.

He set the phone back down and almost returned to staring at the television when his phone buzzed again. Dallon debated on even picking up the device again, but decided that maybe it was important, and so, with much more work than it probably should have taken, Dallon retrieved his phone once again.

_From: Bren_

_Call police_

\--

Brendon's aunt was correct in telling Brendon that he wasn't going to get alcohol poisoning, but she was still a psychotic woman, and she had decided on a much worse fate than that for him. Of course, she never made a decision while she was sober, and if he wasn't so afraid for his safety right now, he'd probably be surprised that she had remembered this plan.

Around his third bottle, Brendon could see three of everything and couldn't form a coherent sentence. He couldn't really remember what was happening either, and there was no way to guarantee him remembering the next hours of his life. He felt a pair of hands at his shoulders, massaging gently at the knots as he leaned back into them. His aunt crouched next to him and kissed his cheek. 

"I promised you no alcohol poisoning, sweetie, but that doesn't mean I didn't try something else," she whispered in his ear. 

Brendon blinked slowly as he watched her hand set a baggie of little white pills on the table. He stood abruptly, the table jerking and bottles crashing to the tile floor. He had to leave, had to get out of here. This was wrong. This was so very wrong. 

He hobbled to his room, the movement only moving the roofies through his bloodstream faster. The edges of his vision began to blur even more, the shapes at the corner of his eyes losing all matters of consistency as he slammed into his door, thankful that he'd left it cracked open instead of shutting it completely. Brendon crashed onto his bed, his fingers shaking violently as he fumbled for his phone, the slow footsteps that were following him becoming more pronounced. Her cackle echoed in his ears as he clumsily typed out a text, praying that autocorrect would get the idea and send a legible message.

"Oh, honey, don't be so scared," she laughed, her hand grabbing his shoulder again and jerking him backwards onto the bed. Brendon felt his body losing the fight with the drugs, and his brain was giving up on him. His eyesight was going black, and Brendon could only hope for the best as he closed his eyes and let hell take him.

\--

When the cops showed up, they heard absolutely nothing. There was no noises, no shouting or screaming, and yet, they'd been directed to this address by a friend of one of the inhabitants. They went to the porch and knocked firmly on the door, waiting. 

They were still standing out front two minutes later when a tall boy came sprinting around the corner, heaving deeply as he nearly skidded to a stop in front of the house.

"Son, what are yo-"

"Please tell me that he's okay," Dallon gasped, the fear in his eyes almost tangible. "Please, for the love of god, tell me that he is okay."

The officers looked at one another, two older guys with grey beards and buzz cuts. One of them turned to Dallon. "Well, you see, son, we can't get into your friend's house, and it seems that everything's okay since nobody's answering the door."

"He's not okay!" Dallon shouted, tears pricking at his eyes. "He wouldn't text me unless he was really afraid!" He scrambled up the steps and pulled the fake flowers out of their pot on the windowsill, reaching into the dirt and revealing a key in his fingers. "Call your backup or something," he said, his voice wavering as he turned the key in the doorknob. He opened the door and the first thing all three heard was a woman's voice, giggling manically as she spoke, addressing whoever she was with in baby-talk.

"See munchkin? It isn't that bad once you go to sleep, hmm? Auntie is going to make it all better, don't you worry one bit." The voice was met with a muffled screech.

Dallon looked at the cops behind him, his tears falling freely down his face. 

"Don't you dare-" one of them reached for his arm, but was too late. Dallon was already running up the staircase to the only used room. "We're going to need back up, now," the officer said into a walkie-talkie.

The officers followed with their guns out, only to be met with one of the worst sights they hoped they'd never encounter in their line line of work. 

A teenage boy was laying on his back, shirtless, with a scarf wrapped around his mouth and a tie around his eyes. His wrists and ankles were tied to the posts of the bed, and his jeans were unbuttoned, shimmied down his hips to reveal plaid boxers. His cheeks were wet beneath the neck tie, and his chest heaved from crying. The tall boy who'd only been on the porch moments earlier was holding onto the other boy, trying to untie his wrist as a woman stood behind him, hitting him all over, trying to pry him away.

"Police, stop what you're doing!" The woman stopped for a moment, sneered at the two men, and wrapped her hands around the tall boy's neck. One of the officers holstered his weapon and ran at the woman, grabbing her and prying her fingers away from the boy's throat, who began coughing and gave up trying to get the other boy undone, trading his efforts in to sob next to him instead. 

"How are we doing with that back up?" The other officer asked his walkie-talkie. "We need paramedics too, asap."

The other officer was still struggling against the woman, pressing her to the floor and slapping a pair of handcuffs around her wrists as he recited her rights to her. Within minutes, four more men in heavy police gear stormed into the room, their guns pointed at the woman as the officer pulled her to her feet.

"You're all fucking bastards!" The woman spat. "He deserved it! The faggot deserved it! His faggot ass was never going to live past senior year anyway!" She shrieked, even as the four men lead her down the stairs and out the front door. The paramedics came up after, a gurney that was meant to carry people with them. One of the other officers must have told them about the boy.

The officers slowly approached the bed, trying their best to not imagine the horror that the boy tied to it was experiencing. They had been told about situations like this before, but they'd never actually lived them.

"Son," one of the officers started.

"My name is Dallon," Dallon said in monotone.

"Dallon, listen, the paramedics are here, they're going to take you and your friend to the hospital, okay?"

"I'm not six," Dallon said, his voice slowly beginning to space out. "They'll call my mom, right?' He asked the paramedic that crouched down next to him, a woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun on the back of her head.

"Mm-hm," she nodded, checking his throat and back for the most damage. A black eye was already forming on his left side, and his lower lip was bleeding, but it was nothing too big. Well, they wouldn't really know until he was checked at the hospital, but Dallon seemed alright for now, as long as they didn't count the fact that he was staring at the wall with wide eyes, which they most certainly did. The paramedic gently helped him to his feet. "They're going to call your mom, and make sure that you and your friend here get the best care possible, okay?" She looked Dallon dead in the eyes and spoke slowly, articulating her words and nodding at the end of her question,

Dallon nodded absentmindedly, his sights always ending up on his best friend. "Brendon," he mumbled, the words paper-thin on his lips. Two more, much bulkier paramedics had untied Brendon's arms and legs from the bed, his wrists and ankles already starting to bruise from the rope. They had taken off the neck tie blindfold and scarf gag and were currently lifting Brendon's limp body and were about to start strapping him in when he started shouting incoherently, scrambling to get away from the gurney and the Velcro straps. The paramedic that was holding Brendon simply pulled him away, holding him like a groom would hold a bride, and gently told him that everything was going to be okay.

"You-you're going to strap m-me down like-like she d-did," Brendon hiccuped into the paramedic's shoulder.

"No, no, we'd never do that. We're here to make sure that you're safe."

"That's what she told me," Brendon said thickly.

"We're going to make sure that she never does that again, okay?" The paramedic consoled Brendon, holding his shaking body close.

"We're going to go downstairs now, okay?" The paramedic holding Dallon's hand said kindly. "And Brendon will be right behind us."

\--

Ryan was organizing the same four sets of comic books when the hospital called.


	20. It's Not Like You're Skyping Us From A Sick Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definite trigger warning for this chapter; use of the f-slur and and abuse

"No, no, no, no, no!" Ryan shouted into the receiver as the nurse in the other end hung up with a click. "This isn't real!"

He felt hot tears pooling over onto his cheeks and turned away from the mirror on the opposing wall, unable to watch himself cry. He remembered when he got hired, and the mirror had just appeared in the employee work room one day, with no rhyme or reason, and it had stayed since, but right now Ryan really just could not bear to see the way his cheeks got too red and the way his face screwed up so that he could bite his lower lip, or the way his cheeks were plastered with tears, even when he tried to keep his eyes closed. The too hot coffee he'd had at lunch rolled in his stomach and Ryan wondered if this was enough to make him puke. Not like it would change the stains on the carpet or anything. He turned back when he heard footsteps, and saw Patrick appear in the doorway of the break room.

"Ryan," Patrick said worriedly, crossing the small room in three short strides. "What's happened?

He placed his hand on Ryan's shoulder, but even that was too much weight for him. Ryan's back hit the wall and he slid to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. This wasn't happening, this wasn't real, it couldn't be real. The call was a joke, something Brendon had rigged up with a sick sense of humor. He knew that the comic shop's phone was an old-ass landline (in his own words) and that Ryan was simply too lazy to get caller ID. But even Brendon, with his wild eyes and devilish grin wouldn't do something as sick as pretend to be in the hospital.

"Ryan? You've got to tell me what's happened," Patrick said again, worry catching in his voice as he gently rubbing circles in between Ryan's shoulder blades.

Ryan shook his head and buried his face against his jeans.

"Ryan, please. I can't help-"

"I don't want help."

Patrick groaned internally. Of course Ryan was going to be stubborn about this. He was probably fighting with his boyfriend. Hell, Patrick hadn't even known that Ryan had a boyfriend until today. Ryan could keep his mouth shut when he wanted, especially where holiday decorations, costumes, and apparently, dating seemed to play a part.

"Ryan, I know you'll probably pitch a fit right now, but I can't help if I don't know why you're sitting on our gum and coffee stained carpet with the phone hanging off of its cord, in a current state of falling apart," Patrick explained, probably coming off as much more parental than he'd meant to.

Ryan looked at Patrick with tear-turned-red eyes. He sniffed, rubbing his nose on his sweater sleeve in a rather childish manner. He absentmindedly made a mental to wash it, thinking about how the yellow sweater was Brendon's favorite, because it matched his lilac hoodie just right. "It's my boyfriend," he mumbled, his voice thick from the sudden bout of crying. "He - he's in the hospital."

Patrick's hand jerked, momentarily losing the rhythm of the circles on Ryan's back. "That's fucking terrible," he said quietly.

"No shit it's fucking terrible," Ryan hiccuped back. "My boyfriend's in the hospital, I've got no idea if he's alright or dying or dead and there's nothing I can do about it other than cry and wait."

Patrick looked, really looked at his friend on the floor. Ryan looked as if he were trying to fold in on himself, with his knees pulled up to his chin and his head hanging low against them. His whole body was hot to the touch, as if someone had cranked up his internal thermostat, and he must have been burning up underneath that sweater he was always wearing.

"We could go to the hospital," Patrick suggested suddenly. "I don't think visiting hours are over for a while."

"But he just got in, and I don't think they'll let anyone who's not related in, and it's Halloween, and oh my gosh, he was so excited for Halloween, he wanted to do a dorky couples costume and everything, and he looked like it was going to be heavenly for him, and oh my gosh he's going to spend Halloween in the hospital," Ryan said, the words just falling out, one right after the other, like he was never going to get another breath.

Patrick sighed. "Well, you'll never know unless you go and find out then, right?"

Ryan shrugged. "I guess," he answered, sitting up a little and wiping his cheeks on his sweater sleeve again.

Patrick stood up and held out his hand for Ryan to take, pulling him to his feet.

_\--_

_Her fingers trailed down his chest, the fake nails pressing against his skin as she traced his stomach. He bit down on the fabric in his mouth and felt a fresh wave of tears begin to wet his cheeks as he made yet another ill attempt at escaping, pulling against the restraints and screaming mutely. Her hand slammed down on his chest, and he wondered if there would be a mark left over._

_"Don't move," she hissed viciously. "You_ will _regret it if you do."_

_He regretted a lot of things in that moment, but finding out the action matched with her threat was not so enticing. He felt the corners of his mind darkening, telling him to just let it happen, why did you wake up in the first place, it will all be better if you just go back and wait until it's over. Only one thing kept him from going under again, a soft light on his mind, the thought of his best friend reading the desperate text and hoping that it was enough. His body started to go numb, her hands making nothing more than fading patterns to be forgotten. His jeans were being pulled down now, and he couldn't feel a thing._

Brendon woke up feeling like he was about to die. His lungs couldn't get enough air, his heart was throbbing out of his chest, his skin was crawling with the patterns she had traced. He wanted to get rid of them. He wanted to scrub them away, he wanted to stay in the shower forever until the dirty feeling went away. He rubbed his hands down his arms uselessly, leaving red marks from how hard he'd been pressing, his short fingernails scratching away at the feelings as a two nurses barged into the room and began to pry his hands from his body.

One of the nurses, a rather muscular man, laced his fingers in between Brendon's, letting the boy squeeze so tightly that he risked the threat of breaking bones instead of hurting himself.

"Shh, shh, shh, it's alright, you're alright," he whispered, trying to calm Brendon down as the boy squirmed like a small child in his arms. Brendon felt the muscles tightening around him and he jerked around more.

Brendon shook his head violently and tried again to wriggle out of the nurse's vice-like grip, but it was to no avail. He bit his lower lip and decided that, much like his aunt, it was easier to just go limp and accept his fate. The nurse took a deep sigh, grateful that Brendon had stopped fighting and he hoisted the ragdoll teenager back onto the bed, all jelly bones and no attempt at making life easier on the nurse.

He motioned to the other nurse, a small woman, that it was alright for her to leave him and Brendon alone. She nodded and turned out of the room, off to help another patient who was probably less moody and uncooperative.

"Bren," the nurse started.

"Only my friends call me that," Brendon mumbled from underneath his arm, which had been flopped over his face when the nurse had set him on the bed.

The nurse nodded curtly. "Brendon," he said, beginning again. "My name is George. Do you remember me from when you first came in?"

"Nope. Who are you?" Brendon wondered about the accent that flowed Nurse George's syllables together. And then he wondered what would happen if he called him Nurse George. Perhaps he could justify it by comparing him to Nurse Joy from Pokemon.

George pressed his lips in a hard line and glanced at the faux ceiling tiles. "Do you want to sit up for me?"

"Nope."

"I'll take you down to the cafeteria and get you real food from the night shift," George offered. Brendon peeked one eye out from beneath his arm in response. "But only if you sit up and give me a reason to sneak food for you."

Brendon rolled from his back to his side and stared at the wall, debating if actual food was worth the effort of talking to George. Really, the question was whether or not he was willing to admit to George deeply personal things that he'd probably reveal on the internet rather than in person, but honestly nobody wanted to believe that was an option.

"What if you take me to get real food right now?" Brendon asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

George quirked his lips and glanced at the ceiling again. Brendon was clearly one of the questioning kids. "Only if you tell me what you were dreaming about."

"Believe me, it wasn't a dream," Brendon muttered. "Anyway, you didn't answer my first question, so why should I answer yours?"

"I'm the nurse on call when traumatized kids come in. Your turn."

Short, sweet, and to the point. Brendon was beginning to like this guy. Did his job require that he befriend kids who came in with serious trauma? Probably. Did he seem like a genuinely kind guy who would help Brendon? Yes. Was Brendon going to tell him about his nightmare? God no. But Brendon was going to distract him from the question, and therefore he wouldn't have to answer anything too personal.

"Where's your accent from?" Brendon asked seriously, not even feigning interest because it was clear that Nurse George was from somewhere with the thick accents, the kind that stuck on the speaker's tongue even after they'd left the city they were raised in.

"What is this, Twenty Questions?" George asked, raising his eyebrows and running a hand through his hair.

Brendon pulled one of his wide-eyed stares at George. "Only if you make it take that long."

George shook his head. "I was born in Belgium."

"And then what?" Brendon was still propped on one elbow; he felt like a movie poster for a teen drama/comedy crossover.

"What do you mean "and then what?" I have a funky accent. I moved a lot when I was a child." George was leaning more casually against the hospital bed that Brendon was unfortunately required to stay in for a week.

George looked at Brendon expectantly, his eyebrows quirked up. Brendon wondered if his wide eyes were enough to make George forget about the nightmare. He also wondered if George was lying about the quality of food downstairs, but he refrained from asking. Instead, he asked a much more pressing question.

"Are you gay?"

"I don't think we're close enough for that yet."

\--

On the night of Halloween, Mikey and Pete weren't doing anything. No one in the Home was, really. They were too far from town to do anything, and nobody wanted to pack into the fifteen seat van that was parked in between the black SUV and a little green sports car in the garage and go to a party that they would all get bored at anyway.

Hayley and Lindsey weren't having anyone's sass though, and that was why Pete was Skype chatting in the living room instead the bedroom, in his usual spot behind the door "because the connection is best here". Pete was adamant that he was being forced into Halloween against his will, as Mikey had made him sit down in the bathroom and applied a royal fuck ton of makeup on Pete's face. Now, they were in the living room with rather well-painted skull makeup, listening to Bert and James discuss Star Wars in depth while a marathon of the Final Destination movies made for background noise.

"What the fuck do you mean "Brendon's in the hospital and he's staying for a week"?" Pete asked, his voice rising octaves into a screech. Dallon was Skyping them from his living room, sort of. He kept checking his phone and grinning like a dork. Pete heard a thump as Mikey fell off of the couch and onto the carpet behind him.

"The fuck?" Mikey asked, adjusting his glasses. He shook out his shirt, smoothing it and running a hand through his already screwy hair.

"Hayley's gonna murder you," Pete said casually, or as casually as he could for finding out that one of his friends was in the hospital, looking back at the popcorn that spread across the the living room floor.

"Probably," Mikey answered, looking past Pete and at the computer screen. "So Bren's okay, though? He's where people can make sure he's doing alright and he hasn't disappeared from the face of the earth?"

Dallon nodded, checking his phone again. "He's already been in since yesterday afternoon, and he doesn't seem to be missing Halloween too much. He should be out in a week, because we're a small town and the hospital can afford to have people begin recovery while they're still admitted."

"Thank goodness for that," Pete said with relief. "Do you know if we can still see him? Or if we're allowed to see him at all?"

Dallon shrugged, tapping out a reply to someone. "I went and saw him, but I think if my mom says we're all brothers or something then you can see him too. He looks pretty shabby though, bruises and little scratches and stuff. He had to get his stomach pumped when he got there, but he's fine now."

"Maybe we could see him tonight," Mikey suggested.

Dallon raised his eyebrows at Mikey. "It's Halloween." His phone dinged again.

"And?" Mikey asked. It wasn't like they were doing anything important. They weren't even _watching_ Final Destination. "It's not like you're Skyping us from a sick party with hot chicks."

Dallon reached over and pulled a plate into view. "I don't know man, my chicken nuggets are fresh from the microwave." He grinned like he had made the funniest joke of the year.

"Would you shut up?" Mikey groaned. "Anyway, I think we should see Bren. It'd be fun, and it's not like we're doing anything."

" _Fun_?" Pete asked, pursing his lips. "At the hospital? Last time I checked, none of us had exactly positive experiences at any hospital."

Dallon nodded to his left, indicating that Pete wasn't wrong. And then he checked his phone.

"Who the hell are you texting?" Pete asked, hoping that he hadn't come off sounding rude.

"No one, it's not important," Dallon said, just a little too quickly. Nobody, _especially_ Pete and Mikey, needed to know who he was texting. Those two would never shut up about it.

"You must be texting someone," Pete pressed. Of course this was important. Like, very important. As in, Pete was going to find out whether or not Dallon was knowledgeable of the fact.

"It's seriously no one," Dallon assured him, too quickly for it to be nobody but not fast enough for it to be a secret girlfriend. He kept typing out answers to whoever was so important, and Pete was suddenly very grateful of the fact that Mikey was literally living with him, because he didn't have to constantly text him when they wanted to talk.

And then Pete wondered what would happen when Mikey moved back in with Gerard and Frank. They were going to have to Skype and text and call rather than hold hands and whisper in each others' ear. They were going to have to exchange Skype names, did Mikey even have an account? Maybe he'd just use Gerard's. Pete was not prepared for the realization that he might have to be separated from his boyfriend, his best friend. Mikey didn't live in the House permanently like Pete. Most of the residents didn't. It was Pete, and Bert, and James. The testosterone trio of the Home. Pete had seen so many people come and go and he had never thought much of it, until now. He guessed that you didn't think much of anything until it was standing in front with messy hair and a sleepy grin and off-center glasses, and apparently throwing popcorn at you and saying "Pete, you're doing that thing where you zone out again."

Pete shook his head a little and felt the back of his neck get hot.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I was thinking."

"So that's what that smell was," Dallon said, and Pete could hear the grin in his words.

"You know what, Weekes -" Pete started with a smile. "You tell me who you're texting."

"No one!" Dallon shouted, his blush visible even on the computer screen.

"Tell your mom to take us to the hospital then," Mikey said quickly, changing the subject before Bert and James wondered what was going on. "I wanna see Brendon."

Dallon nodded. "Come on, Pete, it'll be fun."

Pete looked at Mikey, and Pete was ninety-five percent certain that Mikey was trying his hardest to not make puppy dog eyes and pout, and then he looked at Dallon who was raising his eyebrows expectantly. He realized that, while the general consensus was majority rules, Pete and Mikey still had to ask Hayley, who was handing out candy at the door, if they could go out. Pete however, was the only one who hadn't made the final decision to see Brendon, permission or not.

"Fine," Pete shrugged. It would be good to see Brendon. Since the start of school in September, he'd stopped looking so sickly pale, drunk or hungover or a little bit of both; the tinge of green and purple beneath his eyes had faded until you really had to look to see anything. He'd began to look livelier too; his cheeks didn't look so hollow and his face didn't look so gaunt, and he'd stopped walking around campus like he wasn't really there, just floating through the day with a haunted, sleepless glaze over his eyes. "Let's go see Brendon."

Mikey stood up with a wide smile and turned toward the front room.

"Hayley!"

\--

Ryan hadn't moved since they'd gotten in the car to leave. They'd closed up shop early - Friday was always an early closing - and Patrick felt the need to hold Ryan's wrist as they made the short trek to his car. He wasn't sure why; maybe he felt the need to keep Ryan moving, and if not for that perhaps Ryan would wander, led by his own thoughts and more preoccupied with his boyfriend's safety than his own.

He was balled up in the backseat of Patrick's Honda Civic, albeit rather uncomfortably, from the looks of it. Patrick glanced into the rear view mirror at every red light, but Ryan was being stubborn, more so than usual. He couldn't exactly blame Ryan, but the lady on the phone hadn't said that his boyfriend was dead or anything, so that had to be a plus. Unless, of course, his boyfriend was in critical condition, but they would tell him that, wouldn't they?

Patrick turned into the parking lot, trying to find a spot to leave his car without worry. He passed through row after row of cars, wondering about how many bad decisions had landed this many people in the emergency room on the day of Halloween. There was probably copious amounts of alcohol involved, and wasn't this the hospital that had dealt with that one guy who got a vibrator stuck up his ass last year?

"Ryan? Do you know where I can park?" Patrick asked, his eyes scanning the never-ending array of vehicles. He looked back at Ryan again, who had finally unraveled from himself and was now leaning with his forehead pressed against the window pane.

"You could try visitor parking instead of patient and pharmacy."

Patrick pressed his lips into a thin line and followed the painted arrows to the visitor lot, where there were a few more spaces, but only by a small margin. He pulled in and parked in a spot next a wall of unnaturally green hedges, turning the key and getting out, headed for the doors before he realized that Ryan was still in the backseat, his face smushed against the window. Patrick would never, ever admit it, but he groaned a little before walking back to the door to let Ryan out.

\--

"I'm sure he's fine," Patrick told Ryan, who was twisting a tissue between his fingers nervously, and apparently studying the floor tiles with great interest. "They would have told you if something was seriously wrong."

Ryan turned his head to look at Patrick with wide eyes, glazed from crying. Patrick didn't know what to say really; he'd only ever had one girlfriend and she'd broken up with him. Last he'd heard, she'd moved schools, and was busying herself by leading the student council above and beyond what the school had ever seen before. To be fair, he wasn't very surprised - she was one determined woman. Truth be told, they were never meant to work out - she was diligent and work-minded and he was apathetic at most. He was certain that she'd only dated him to see if she could change him into her perfect boyfriend, and he'd dated her because at the time, he thought that was what he wanted in life; a woman who was more of a partner than a lover, someone who could keep him on a track to the success that everyone expected him to have. In the end, she'd emailed, _emailed_ him a business letter - titled "do not reply" and very formally written to politely tell him that he was lazy and never showed up to the community picnics that she tried to hold. But now, he had just one person in his sights - a really cute guy who played bass and who answered his texts with something other than "sorry, editing the newspaper" or "love u, but can't hang - volunteering!" Patrick's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to find a new text from Dallon: _have fun at work, i'm with pete and mikey and we're going to see bren._

Patrick had stayed up all night texting and calling Dallon frantically, because he hadn't replied. Dallon apologized the next morning, and told him the whole story. He'd had to get checked for any wounds and he'd almost gotten tested for trauma when his mom had breezed in, telling the doctors that he already had a therapist, yes, he'd discuss this with her, and no, he's fine at home, thank you very much. They'd been texting all day, even when Dallon was talking with Pete and Mikey on Skype.

Patrick slipped his phone back into his back pocket and sat down in the blue plastic chair next to Ryan, who had practically decimated the tissue by now. He found himself almost imitating their earlier moment; Patrick rubbing circles into Ryan's back while Ryan tried to sort things out in his head. He looked up when he heard the automatic doors swoosh open -

And watched as Dallon, Pete, and Mikey breezed in with Mrs. Weekes walking briskly behind.

\--

Brendon was sitting with his legs crossed on the bed, eating a sandwich that was still partially wrapped in plastic wrap. George was sat in a chair facing him, seemingly studying the blue wall behind Brendon with great interest. They both chewed slowly, ignoring the weight on their shoulders and the elephant in the room - the metaphorical one, that is. Brendon could barely fit in this hospital room, his personality needed space, let alone an elephant and its personal thoughts.

"Was she always like that?" George asked. It wasn't out of the blue, but it wasn't exactly expected either.

Brendon stopped mid-chew, his jaw clenching around the wad of bread in his mouth. Had she always been like that? A fucking psycho with a wish to kill Brendon, maybe. He didn't want to look too deep, he didn't have to; he was already getting flashbacks of his aunt making him do things that would definitely be counted as child abuse and predatory nature by any sane court of law. Times where she'd sworn that her heating system was broken while Brendon walked around the house shirtless, wearing only basketball shorts. He could feel her hungry looks at his back, but he'd always thought of them as hatred for walking around the house half-naked. There was the one summer where the AC had been broken, and he'd spent hours layering thin shirts on top of each other so that he wasn't cold inside and hot outside. Every time something had been broken, or anything fell, she'd make him pick up whatever it was, and he'd told himself that the looks he felt were all a dream. She hated him. Hated Brendon. Hated that he was bisexual, hated that he had dumped his first girlfriend (who turned out to be bisexual and in a serious relationship), hated everything. But she loved his body. Loved the way his jeans rode low on his hips and the way she only bought shirts that were too small because she wanted to look.

Frankly, his aunt was a goddamn pedophile and he was glad she was finally getting what she deserved. He'd had to sit in his bed and play victim for the police investigators while telling them how much she had abused him since his parents had "disappeared" in South America on a honeymoon cruise. Brendon knew that they'd abandoned him, because all of his siblings lived with his grandparents while he went to "visit" his aunt with his parents, but the root of the matter was that they weren't coming back anytime soon, and they sure as hell weren't going to worry about their son being in the hospital.

"What's on your mind?" George asked, crumpling the plastic wrap from his sandwich in a ball.

Brendon looked at George with one eyebrow raised and shrugged. "Thinking about my aunt, I guess."

"Anything else?" George pressed. "You do know that you can talk to me, Brendon."

Brendon nodded. The point of dodging questions was because Brendon didn't want to talk. He knew that George was probably very cool, when he wasn't at work. At work, he dealt with traumatized people and gave them prescriptions in little orange bottles and sent them on their way to a happy bubble life that the pills created in their heads. Brendon had dealt with his head - albeit in a rather self-destructive manner - but he had a plan for life that involved not having to take meds every morning before his nine-to-five business job that was driving him to madness.

"Brendon? You're going a little blank," George said softly. "Talk to me."

Brendon twisted away from him and stared at the wall. "I don't want to."

"Why?" George scooted his chair over to the side and leaned his head on his hand.

Brendon took note of the fact that George had impossibly long legs, like Mikey, and his knees went up more than the average person, making it look like his feet were always propped on a stool. Brendon wondered for a moment if Mikey's legs did the same thing. It couldn't be comfortable under the school desks if his knees were constantly bumping against the underside of the table. And the pieces of chewed gum that were stuck there? Nasty. Mikey must be glad he wore black jeans religiously.

Brendon turned to face George, pulling a "why would you ask a stupid question" face.

"What?" George asked leaning back in his seat. "Why are you so afraid of telling me about yourself?"

"Because if I tell you what's going on, you'll brush me off with some pills."

George slowly reached to put his hand on Brendon's shoulder, but Brendon flinched and moved away.

"Sorry," Brendon apologized, running his fingers through his hair. "I've never really been good with touching."

"It's fine," George said. "But you do know that I'm not a psychiatrist, right? I'm a psychologist."

"What' s the difference?" Brendon asked.

"I can't prescribe medication, and no one can give it to you unless I decide you should have it."

Brendon nodded slowly. Maybe George wasn't so bad after all. So far, he'd gotten Brendon food and had sat there in silence as he ate the aforementioned sandwich that was still pretty bland but Brendon wasn't going to tell George that. And he wouldn't give Brendon any medication, which was a positive.

A young nurse in pink scrubs appeared in the doorway. "Hi, guys," she said cheerfully. "There's a few visitors for you, Brendon, if you'd like to see them."

Brendon and George looked at each other, and Brendon nodded. Visitors wouldn't be too bad. He wondered if Dallon had gotten the rest of his family together to see Brendon.

The nurse smiled. "Cool, I'll tell them they can go up."

\--

Downstairs was a different story.

Patrick had learned a lot about his friends in the waiting room. For example, Dallon was best friends with Brendon, who just so happened to be dating Ryan, who just so happened to be Patrick's friend and boss, who just so happened to run the comic store that Pete and Mikey always ended up kissing outside of. And Patrick _still_ had a crush on Dallon.  

"What do you mean, I can't see him?" Ryan was fuming. "He's my boyfriend! He needs me!"

"Sir, please," the woman at the desk said in a worried tone. "Only immediate family can see him right now."

"I'm his _boyfriend_!"

"And I understand that, but you're not his blood relation; you can't see him. Come back tomorrow."

Dallon and Patrick stopped and looked at each other in confusion, but before either party could say anything, a nurse came into the waiting room and asked Dallon, Pete, Mikey, and Mrs. Weekes to follow her, and they disappeared down a hall. Ryan had gone up to the desk to see if he was allowed into Brendon's room as well, leading to the conversation that had left Ryan practically foaming at the mouth from anger.

"Come back tomorrow! You've got to be kidding me! I'm his boyfriend, for god's sake! I should be able to see him!"

"Sir, _please_ ," the desk nurse was practically begging by now. Ryan looked like he would turn into the Hulk if anything else happened.

"Ryan, let's just sit down and relax -" Patrick hesitantly put a hand on Ryan's shoulder, praying that he subdued the beast rather than piss Ryan off even more.

Ryan threw his shoulder, forcing Patrick's hand away. "This is bullshit! I should be able to see him! I'm his goddamn boyfriend and you won't even let me in! It's not like he's got any family!"

Patrick didn't even know what he was doing until Ryan was shoved up against the chair and he sat, albeit against his will. Patrick was staring coldly into his eyes, and he knew, he knew that Ryan was afraid. He was so easy to read that he couldn't even be compared to an open book. But Patrick couldn't make his fist loosen from Ryan's sweater. He shoved Ryan backwards in slow motion, and sound seemed to drain away from the world for a moment, and then it was back, almost exclusively to the little bubble Patrick had seemingly created around them. 

" _You don't say that shit about your goddamn boyfriend_ ," Patrick growled. "You are supposed to be there for him, hold him when he gets out of this hospital and he's afraid that his aunt is around every corner, wipe those tears away and make him feel safe. You do not make jabs at the fact that he's got a shit family and a bitch who raised him. If you can't stop yourself from doing that shit, even when you're goddamn pissed off as hell, you back the fuck off of my friend and stay the fuck out of his life."

It was all over in a blink. Patrick's hand uncurled from Ryan's shirt collar, he could feel the blush drain from his cheeks and his face felt like it was burning and freezing at the same time. He had no idea where the anger had come from - he never got upset like that, even when people were driving him to the edge. Usually, he just took whatever the person was dishing out and went on with his life. But Brendon was his friend, one of his best friends, and Patrick knew because he'd kissed him. He wasn't sure if you were supposed to be best friends with someone you'd kissed, but most everyone in their circle of friends had kissed at least once, so that had to count for _something_.

"That's fucking bull," Ryan muttered, pulling out his phone and angrily scrolling through Facebook, glaring at the dancing cat videos before he closed the app with an audible sigh. "He's my boyfriend. I should be able to see him. The only person that he's closer to is Dallon."

Patrick nodded. "Those two are inseparable. Practically conjoined, I'm surprised he never took you to meet Dallon."

Ryan shrugged, sitting back in the chair once again. "He showed me pictures and stuff like that. Dallon just looks like a good kid. Probably won't leave Brendon out to dry."

Patrick kept quiet about Dallon's previous drug habits, and Brendon's participation in them. Especially the videos they used to text the group chat they had freshman year. Those were practically MTV worthy clips to promote kids who got fucked up real bad, real fast. Dallon and Brendon were both good now, in the clear. Brendon had even stopped drinking himself into a stupor, around the same time that Ryan had informed Patrick of his new boyfriend, and Patrick scolded himself for not putting two and two together sooner. He was fairly certain that Brendon didn't drink at all anymore, but Ryan was legally allowed to buy alcohol, though he liked to drink red wine and Patrick was also fairly certain that Brendon didn't drink wine until he was to drunk to notice the difference.

"Gabe is going to kill us tomorrow," Ryan said, out of the blue. The duo had fallen into a soft silence as they realized that Ryan was hellbent on staying until he could see Brendon.

"Why?" Patrick said, not really sure if his response was a question or a statement.

"He and Willow always drop in before everyone else on Saturdays, and I don't think either of us are going to be there tomorrow to open the door for them."

Patrick nodded in understanding. "D'ya want me to text Gabe? Let him know that we won't be there?"

"What do you mean, "we" won't be there?" Ryan said. "Where are "we" going?"

"It's late, Ryan," Patrick answered. "And we both need sleep. Come crash at my place for the night, and we'll come back tomorrow."

The nurse from earlier came back down the hall, followed by Dallon and Co., and came up to Ryan and Patrick again.

"Visitor hours are over," she said softly. "Come back tomorrow, they'll let you see him then."

Ryan nodded slowly, and stood up. "Guess I'm at your house, right?"

Pete's face lit up. "Can we come? You've got a big house, don't you, Pattycakes?"

Patrick shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, as long as Hayley is cool with it, I guess. Dall? You coming?"

Dallon looked at his mom, who smiled and nodded curtly. "Go on, it'll be good for you. Spend a Saturday night with your friends."

Pete gave Patrick the thumbs up after checking his phone - Hayley said yes, as long as they came home before the evening.

"Cool," Patrick said. "Sleepover at my place. We can watch comedies or something. Lift the mood."

\--

Brendon gathered very quickly that he did not like the hospital policies on visiting. Dallon had told him that the nurse wouldn't let Ryan up because he wasn't related to Brendon, which was stupid. And he knew for a fact that Ryan was throwing a bitch fit in the lobby because he heard it, as well as the fact that Dallon had gotten a text from Patrick that asked why he had to be on "Angry Boyfriend Duty". They also had to leave before ten pm, which was ridiculous because it took a half hour to get from Dallon's house to Pete and Mikey's place and then to the hospital. Then they could only talk for fifteen minutes, and he still hadn't seen Ryan. George had left too, and another nurse had come and checked on him before he was supposed to sleep.

Brendon wondered if they were all staying at someone's house in town, because Pete and Mikey did live up in the hills, and their guardian lady had strict rules on lights out. He stared at the very clearly fake ceiling tiles for a longer time than he intended, until his eyelids finally gave up and he was forced to close them.

His mom had never been the greatest, Brendon concluded. Nor had his dad. They were a punk and a hippie who'd somehow managed to get together and make a family and then decided that they didn't need their fifth child. He hadn't been dropped off at the hellhole until he was five, but the first years of his life weren't exactly flowers and rainbows. Brendon recalled a lot of his older siblings watching him while they were messing around, which meant a lot of sneaking out and Brendon being carried around in cheap rock clubs while he was half asleep on someone's shoulder. His siblings never intended for him to get into the horrible life they were living, something that Brendon remembered fondly. They never let anyone with drugs or cigarettes in a thirty foot radius of Brendon, and told him that he wasn't allowed to even think about doing any substance in any form until he was at least twenty-one, and Brendon probably wouldn't have, if he'd continued living with them.

For whatever reason, his parents had dropped him with a crazy woman and left him - that was it. Over. Done. Gone without so much as a goodbye.

And Brendon missed his siblings more than anything.

\--

Patrick could not, for the life of him, remember where he and his family had acquired so many coffee mugs.

He knew that his mom drank tea and his dad drank coffee, but how many different mugs does one family need? Why did they need a commemorative lighthouse mug? Who on earth owned a mug from every Broadway musical they'd seen? Where did one find a collectors' edition Darth Mal mug? Actually, Patrick was going to bet that one was his.

He wasn't even quite sure when the guys in the living room had started up a group Skype call with Ry and Charr and everyone who wasn't currently taking up space on various couches and chairs, and one rather large beanbag was being used by a rather annoying Mikey and Pete, who hadn't exactly come out as boyfriends, they'd just shown up and started kissing one day and that was that.

This was going to be a long night.


	21. High School Musical Did Not Prepare Me For This

At this point in his life, Patrick Stump realized that he was experiencing a lot more things that High School Musical had never prepared him for. There were no energetic musical numbers about you and your friends all being fucked in the head, nor were there any characters that advised you on what to do in case your friend's aunt royally fucked him over (talk about bad wording), and there was especially nothing about what to do when your crush's best friend was dating your coworker who was also an emotional fuckboy with no apparent ability to censor himself when he got angry.

And yet they were all at his house, stealing his extra blankets and discussing whether Ry's advice of cutting out a person's liver was better done in person or if they should just hire someone to do it inside of the prison. Patrick heard a thump and walked into the living room just as Dallon, the idiot he found himself horribly attracted to, fell off the couch while Pete victoriously clutched a pillow above his head. Mikey leaned over and kissed Pete, and then caught Patrick's eye and nodded rather indiscreetly at Dallon. Ryan was sulking in the corner beneath a pile of blankets, or maybe he had fallen asleep against the wall? Patrick wasn't sure, though he kind of hoped for the latter.

"Hey, did you find what you were looking for?"

Patrick shifted his vision from his manager to his crush and grinned, shrugging his shoulders and taking a drink from his mug. He offered the cup to Dallon.

"Coffee?"

"Tea."

Dallon accepted the cup from Patrick and took a sip before making a face.

"What?" Patrick asked, slightly offended that Dallon was insulting his tea-making abilities.

"Too sweet. What were you looking for anyway?" He handed the mug back.

"Nothing really. Hot chocolate or something to keep everyone occupied," Patrick mumbled into the brim of his mug. "But I think they succeeded on their own."

Dallon nodded. "Come on, don't worry about us. Just relax. We're a fully functional unit. We can fend for ourselves."

"That's what I'm worried about," Patrick said.

Dallon snorted. "Come one, Patty Cakes," he said, putting his arm over Patrick's shoulders. "We can watch Mean Girls or something with everyone. It's been a wild day."

"I wanna watch White Chicks," Patrick mumbled as Dallon whisked him toward the couch.

\--

Mikey and Pete had disappeared to a conveniently empty bedroom and were currently cuddling each other in a very cliche way.

"Mikey," Pete mumbled into his boyfriend's neck. He was deciding to say boyfriend because frankly, nobody had really mentioned that the two had just magically gotten together out of the blue. It was almost like when an author didn't know how to formulate a story so they had just thrown the characters together in a rush and hoped that the readers wouldn't notice. It was an oddly specific comparison, but fuck it.

"'M sleeping, you asshole," Mikey answered bluntly. 

Pete nudged closer to Mikey. "But I wanna talk," he whispered.

"Fuck off."

"Mikey," Pete whined, drawing out the last syllable. "Please?"

"Pete," Mikey groaned angrily, pulling a pillow over his face and shoving at Pete to make him move away. He was not in the mood for this. "I wanna sleep."

"We can't sleep, Mikeyway. We need to talk about everything under the sun."

Mikey used his height advantage and shoved Pete to the edge of the bed with his knee. "We'll do that when the sun is up."

Pete laid on his back and stared at the popcorn ceiling. He wanted to talk to Mikey about everything - about how his scars were fading and there weren't any new ones, and how Mikey was smiling a lot more, and how he looked like something had breathed new life into his body. 

He thought about the first time that he had seen Mikey, a beanie yanked over his mop of hair and his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. How he'd looked so cute with his glasses askew while he slept, how Pete had felt his fear when he'd had a nightmare the first night. His cheekbones were clearly showing and he looked like nothing could make him happy ever again.

And now, Mikey looked brighter. He showed his teeth when he grinned and he had started smirking for whatever reason. Color was back in his cheeks and he stood tall, with his head held high.

Pete really liked Mikey. And Mikey really liked Pete. And Pete was really happy about that, so he went to sleep.

Until Mikey grabbed his shoulder at three in the morning (according to the clock on the nightstand) and shook Pete awake, babbling about the grocery store.

"Mikey," Pete said groggily, rolling onto his side. "An hour ago, you wanted to sleep."

Mikey rubbed his eye. "Yeah but like, I realized something important."

"What on earth could you have realized that couldn't wait until at least daybreak," Pete mumbled. He couldn't even open his eyes.

"The guy at the grocery store. He's your dad."

"Well, wouldn't that be fuckin' convenient."

\--

"So are you gay or not?"

"Brendon, I've lost count of how many times I've told you about that being inappropriate to ask me."

Brendon frowned as he lounged on the chair beside his hospital bed, sitting completely wrong with his head hanging off the seat, staring at George. He felt gravity pulling the blood to his cheeks.

"But you're like, my only friend in this godforsaken place," he whined.

George rolled his eyes. "Sometimes, I'm glad that we have a conveniently placed system so that people can get out of the hospital in a week, because I don't know if I can keep my secrets much longer."

Brendon lifted his head. "So you are gay."

"I didn't say that."

Brendon dropped again, rolling his eyes.

"You're so annoying, George," he sighed dramatically. "I ask you one simple question and you have to run around the answer until I have to pull facts out."

George grinned. "This isn't what daily therapy sessions are for, you know. They're supposed to be helping you. And you're supposed to be sitting up straight."

"Only if you admit that you're not straight."

"Brendon, please."

Brendon flipped awkwardly out of the chair - more of a flailing attempt with a poorly executed landing than what was likely intended - and stood up, wandering to the closed door. He trailed his fingertips over the chipping paint before starting to wander the span of the three walls where there were no machines, staring into space.

He had found himself doing this quite often during moments when he was allowed to walk around; trailing his fingers over his room and the hallways, memorizing the way that each space had different textures and patterns. George had asked him about it once, but Brendon didn't know why he did it. George explained that it was a response to what had happened, but didn't press the issue.

"What about that nurse? The one with the curly hair?" Brendon asked. He was focused on the discussion, but walking helped him think.

George stuttered on the water that he was drinking and set the glass down. "Matty?"

"He's the one with the mohawk, right?" Brendon asked, looking over at his rather tall companion, who was once again folded into the chair in a way that could not possibly have been comfortable. "He was wearing blue eye shadow last night." His fingers tapped out a nameless rhythm against the plaster.

"Matty fucking Healy," George muttered. "Only him."

Brendon rocked on his heels, thinking about what he could say. He usually just said things; he had no filter and had never learned how to fake it. He knew it was a side effect of the ADHD that she had never gotten him a prescription for - well, she bought it, but Brendon wasn't the one taking it.

"What are you thinking about, Brendon?"

What are you thinking about? Brendon had never really liked the question. There was a lot going on in his head, and people expected him to pick just one thought? "Pick the important one!" They would say. But they were all important, Brendon argued. Yes, especially the ones about cats wearing birthday hats, okay.

"What's in there, Brendon? I know that you're a list-maker. Tell me the list."

George was good at what he did, that was for sure. Brendon would swear up and down that George just knew how the people he worked with dealt with things. Like the notebook and pencil that had appeared on Brendon's bedside table after a particularly bad night, resulting in several pages of the same list within the following hours of discovery.

Brendon made a mental note to ask George for a new notebook soon - there weren't that many pages left in the original.

"You still with me, Brendon?"

Brendon nodded slowly, pulling himself out of the fog that had clouded over his thoughts.

"I need a new notebook."

He saw George scrawl something into his Very Professional spiral notebook, that advertised its price - 99 cents - on the cover.

"I have ADHD. Diagnosed at twelve. No medication."

The pen scratched against the page.

"You should get a pen that doesn't catch on the page when you're writing."

That earned a snort from George.

"I get discharged tomorrow, if someone signs me out. If not, I stay another week while they find a foster family for me to stay with."

Scritch scratch over spiral-bound pages, showing the progression from the first session until now.

"I don't want to be bounced from foster home to foster home for a year."

"Well, it's a good thing that you're not."

"Am I going home with you and Matty?"

"Brendon."

\--

"'Trick?" Dallon mumbled, a sleepy grin forming. "How many times have you watched this part?"

Patrick's bedroom was dark except for the laptop that they'd been watching the movie on. Dallon didn't remember when he'd fallen asleep, but it was apparent that Patrick as trying to finish the movie, to no avail.

"Ten," Patrick answered, his eyes drooping.

Dallon tugged Patrick's sleeve. "Lay down, we can finish it in the morning."

Patrick sighed and stopped the movie before shuffling down beneath the blankets with Dallon. "I don't need to sleep," he mumbled. 

"Yes, you do." Dallon pulled the blankets up and curled on his side.

They'd had a rough day, everyone had. Pete and Mikey were already in a different room, and the girls had apparently went home in the middle of the night. Ryan was still passed out on the couch. Dallon blearily wondered how Brendon was doing.

"Dallon?"

"Patrick, you gotta sleep," Dallon mumbled. "What's up?" He rolled onto his back.

Dallon waited for a response, but was met with the sound of the bedside lamp clicking on and light flooding the room. He yanked the blanket over his eyes, groaning. 

"'Trick, what on earth are you doing?"

Patrick pulled the blanket away from Dallon. 

"Dallon, you can't sleep. I'm having a crisis."

"About what?" He mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Patrick grabbed Dallon's t-shirt collar earnestly, balling it in his fist. Technically, it was Patrick's shirt, but it was far too big for Patrick and Dallon wasn't about to complain about borrowing Patrick's clothes. 

"Do you like me?" Patrick asked, his eyes wide.

Dallon froze. What was he supposed to say? It was like a shitty teen movie - your crush asked who you liked, and you didn't want to embarrass yourself in hopes that they might consider dating you. He opened his mouth to respond when there was a loud thump from the hallway. Patrick and Dallon, in a ridiculously comedic manner, looked at the door and then at each other with wide eyes.

"Mikey." Both Dallon and Patrick sighed in relief as Pete's not-so-silent whisper sounded from the other side of the door.

"Mikey, we gotta be quiet. We can't let them know we're eating the cookie dough."

"Shut the fuck up, Pete."

\--

The Home was quiet. All of the kids were asleep, in varying rooms across the house, and Hayley was pretty sure that she wasn't going to have anyone dropped off the next morning. And yet here she was, pacing back and forth in her bedroom at three in the morning. The bed squeaked as Lindsey shuffled and threw the covers down a bit. She reached for her phone and checked the time.

"It's three in the morining, Ley," she said, her voice just a little raspy from the few hours of sleep. "What are you doing up?"

Hayley rubbed her eyes and continued pacing.

"Hayley, what's eating at you?"

Hayley sat on the foot of the bed. Lindsey crawled up behind her and hugged her shoulders, resting her nose on the nape of Hayley's neck. "What's wrong?" She mumbled.

"I just, I don't know how I could have let Mikey and Pete go to Patrick's house."

She felt Lindsey grin against her skin. 

"It's a totally rational thing, Linds," Hayley defended herself. "They're both in my care for a reason."

Lindsey pulled Hayley closer. "I know, I know. But I think you're worrying about nothing. You know Patrick, have known him, since Pete started going to school. Mikey's been doing great, and Pete wouldn't do anything too unsafe. He knows better."

Hayley leaned back into Lindsey's arms, closing her eyes. "Mikey is almost ready to be released," she said. "I talked to his social worker yesterday, while you were in the shower."

"Ray?" She asked, slowly leaning back so that they were both laying next to each other on the bed.

"Mm-hm," Hayley answered, a grin forming. "You know, it's really hard to talk about my job when you're trying to spoon me."

Lindsey hugged Hayley closer to her, burying her face in Hayley's hair. "Mm, but it's my favorite way to hear you talk."

Hayley yawned and turned to lay in the crook of Lindsey's neck. She sighed and felt her eyelids droop. Lindsey was right. Nothing was going to happen.


	22. Murphy's Law Is A Bitch

It had become apparent to Mikey that something could go wrong. And, as Murphy's Law would have it, what can go wrong, will go wrong.

In this case, it was Pete, eating too much cookie dough.

"Is he okay yet?" Patrick asked. Okay, so he sort of whined it, but come one. It was four in the morning. He was sitting in the hallway with Dallon while Mikey and Pete were in the bathroom. Cookie dough and Pete's stomach apparently did not get along well.

"What do you think?" Pete asked shakily from the bathroom.

Patrick rolled his eyes. He looked at his hands, thumbs twiddling over the blue carpet that his parents had chosen for the hallway. And the living room. And the bedrooms. Patrick's parents really liked the color blue.

"Hey, 'Trick?"

Dallon scooted closer to Patrick, putting his hand on Patrick's. Patrick bit his lip.

"Can we, uh, talk? About, uh. You know. Can we talk?" Patrick looked at Dallon, whose cheeks had turned pink.

Patrick felt his chest tighten. Dallon was going to shut him down, he was going to tell him he was straight, that he had a girlfriend, something. Patrick wasn't even sure what he was. All he knew was that he really, really, liked Dallon.

"'Trick, you're like, super cool-"

Here it comes.

"And I, well, yeah. Yeah. I do like you. A lot."

They heard Mikey groan irritably from the bathroom. "You guys are admitting your love for each other at a time like this?"

\--

"Uh-huh, yeah. I'm just so nervous. A few more weeks, and then he's going back to Jersey. It's wild. Are you coming here? With them? O-Okay. No, it's fine. great actually, she just hadn't told me yet," Hayley said into the phone, casting a sidelong glance at Lindsey, who raised her eyebrows innocently.

"Okay, yeah. I guess we'll be seeing you guys in a few weeks then."

"Who was that?" Lindsey asked, setting a sandwich down in front of Hayley.

Hayley set the phone down and looked up at Lindsey. "When were you going to tell me that Ray and Gerard and Frank were coming to pick Mikey up?"

Lindsey shrugged and sat down on the table next to Hayley. "I don't know. It didn't seem relevant at the time - they're not coming for another two weeks."

Hayley rolled her eyes. Lindsey would probably have told her the day that they were coming - that was just how she did things. But she needed to know these things and she had to tell Mikey and Pete eventually. She shuddered at the thought of how they would react.

"Pete and Mikey aren't going to like that very much."

Lindsey shook her head and her pigtails went haywire for a moment. "You could always let them meet up on the weekends? Jersey isn't too far away."

"The Turnpike is hell, is the problem. I don't want them to be torn apart, though." Hayley pushed her uneaten sandwich aside and put her head on the table. "They're so good together."

Lindsey rubbed circles into Hayley's back. "I know. Somehow they'll make it work. Like we do."

Hayley smiled as she lifted her head from the table. She kissed Lindsey's cheek gently before laying her head on Lindsey's shoulder, deciding that, if she and Lindsey could make things work with their hectic schedules, anything was possible.

\--

Miles away, in a four story building across the country in California, was an attorneys' office. It was far from New York, where the weather was like New Jersey but people still thought you'd overheat in a sweater, and it was far from a home that had a lot more blue than was really necessary. Somewhere out there, Peter Wentz II was getting a mug of coffee in the break room before his first clients of the day, checking his phone and listening to the machine bubble. The smell of coffee wafted through the air as his coworkers walked in, grabbing mugs or setting Starbucks cups down as they filled the room with small talk. 

"Morning, Peter," Courf said brightly as he leaned casually against the counter top, loosening his tie. His hair was a curly mop of dyed black that hung almost to his eyebrows, and it was obviously shining a dark blue under the break room lights. It had been cut short on the sides as well, revealing the young secretary's piercings that ran from the lobe up to his cartilage on his left ear. Honestly, their boss would probably have a cow if she saw that Courf's body modifications were visible, but the twenty-something year old really couldn't care less. And Peter was pretty sure that the kid was leaving the firm soon - he'd caught him checking out a high school's campus and he left for "smoke breaks" routinely. Which would be fine if Courf wasn't straight-edge and didn't talk so loudly beneath Peter's office window.

"Morning, Courf. When do you leave for that teaching job? AP European History, right?"

The coffee machine dinged and Peter moved to grab a mug. Courf had stopped messing with his tie. Peter finished pouring his drink and turned, flashing him a knowing grin. "You really shouldn't smoke, you know. Bad for the lungs."

He gave the young man a curt nod and left him standing at the counter.

Peter got to his office just as his phone began ringing. He set his drink down and picked up the device in one fell swoop, silently congratulating himself on the achievement. 

"Good morning, Kitty."

"Morning, Mr. Wentz. The Euringer-Claret couple is here, would you like me to send them in?"

Peter sat in his desk chair. "That sounds wonderful, my dear. Thank you. And tell Courf that he should take the job, will you?"

"Will do, Mr. Wentz." The phone clicked and Peter adjusted the knickknacks on his desk. He frowned when he noticed that he'd forgotten to put his stapler away from yesterday's paperwork. He opened the top drawer of his desk and was met with the reason he kept the stapler in the bottom drawer.

He set the stapler down and picked up the picture. It wasn't really that old, maybe ten years or so. Pete was sitting on a park bench, a huge smile stretching across his face, his chin dripping ice cream. His curly hair stood up and he had a smear of chocolate sauce on his forehead. Peter sighed and set the photograph down, wishing he could see his son again. He didn't even know where Pete was now - yeah, he knew that he should have stayed, and there wasn't a day that he didn't regret leaving. He wanted to see Pete grow up, wanted to be with him when he turned thirteen, when he turned sixteen, when he went on his first date. Peter knew that Pete probably didn't want anything to do with him, and he had come to terms with the fact.

But he still wanted to see his son in person, and maybe just tell him that he was proud of him. He glanced at his computer, mentally preparing himself for the amount of phone calls and security checks that he was going to have to experience, when a couple walked through his office door. He put a smile on his face and got ready for the day.


	23. Zombie Mothers

If there was one thing that Brendon Urie had learned in his time of knowing the Weekes' family, it was that Mrs. Weekes always got shit done. The woman was a powerhouse when it came to making plans, choices, decisions, and dinners. And apparently, taking Brendon under her wing.

Honestly, Brendon wasn't sure what he had expected from her. Certainly not anything less, but when she came marching into his room, he was rather unprepared. He had glanced at George, who was trailing behind Mrs. Weekes, possibly out of breath, possibly having just given up on the prospect of keeping up with her when she meant business.

"Bren," she'd said gently, sitting in the chair next to the bed. "How are you?"

He'd shrugged and grinned. "Been better, I guess." He'd raised his thumb to his mouth and began to chew on the nail.

She'd grinned in that mom way, with her cool-mom energy, and then produced a stack of paperwork from her purse and told Brendon that she had signed to become his appointed legal guardian after a discussion with the police, a few social workers, and one very weird cat lady. Brendon had run to Dallon in the lobby, hugging him with all of the strength one can have from shitty hospital food.

That was a week ago, and now Brendon found himself hiding his head beneath his pillow as Mrs. Weeks opened the door to the room that Dallon and Brendon shared, singing the opening song to Oklahoma. He heard Dallon pull the covers over his head and grumble a little, right before Mrs. Weekes pulled the covers back and Dallon shrieked "Mom!"

"Time for school, you two."

"It's Saturday!"

\--

"We have to tell him, Hayls. We can't just tell Mikey and then let Pete figure it out on his own after Gerard and Ray and Frank show up and just whisk him away for the rest of his life."

"I know, I know, Hayley said softly, balling her hair into a fist. Lindsey didn't like when she did that - it was going to damage her hair - but Hayley wasn't about to stop her nervous habits unless her girlfriend came up with a valid example of how it ruined her hair. "But what else am I supposed to do? "Oh, Petey, I know that this is the first boy you've ever really liked this much and he's literally the light of your world and that separating you two is probably the most cataclysmic thing that could happen besides, like, a giant meteor dropping on top of one of you in the middle of an apocalypse, but Mikey was never a permanent resident like you and Bert and James are"? He'd be devastated, Linds. He would probably cease to exist!"

Lindsey glanced into the living room, where the older kids were holding a Halloween movie marathon, hosted by the four oldest boys - Mikey, Pete, Bert, and James. All four of which were currently delving into cups of popcorn, gummy bears, and M&Ms, a concoction that Bert remembered from Halloweens past, before he lived with Hayley.

\--

Pete Wentz had struggled with a lot of things in his life. His birth family was a distant mess in Illinois, he'd been bullied until high school, and his legs were too damn short, but he was not prepared to deal with Mikey leaving in a week. They were laying together on Mikey's bed, cuddling and taking in each other as they stared at the ceiling. Mikey was asleep now, fingers intertwined with Pete's, his soft breath ghosting across Pete's shoulder. But Pete couldn't just nap. A week ago, everything was going great. Pete had a boyfriend, Brendon was out of the hospital and going to school, Dallon and Patrick were holding hands all the time and doing whatever adorably gross things that couples do, and Pete felt like he was on top of the world for the first time in forever. And then Hayley had to tell them.

Hayley had sat them down at the kitchen table on the day after Halloween, folded her hands together, and said the words, coming down like an ax on Pete's heart.

"So, boys. I have some bad news."

"What? Did something happen to Lindsay?"

Hayley gave a tight lipped smile. "Actually, it's about you, Mikey."

Mikey looked taken aback. "Me?"

She nodded. "I know that the Home is unorthodox, and it's unlike any other place you could have been sent, but we have to face the facts: you've been in treatment because you were suicidal and posed a threat to yourself."

"I got diagnosed though! With Ray!" Mikey said in shock. "I know I'm bipolar!"

Pete could see tears threatening to well up in Mikey's eyes, and then Mikey flopped his head into his arms, bent over the kitchen table.

"Mikey..." Hayley said softly, reaching her hand across the table.

"I take my medication," Mikey mumbled, his voice muffled by the faux wood.

"I know you do, but the reality is that you're not a permanent resident of the Home. You have Gerard and Frank waiting for you to go back to New Jersey. You've got two weeks before they come get you."

"But what about Pete?"

Pete continued staring at the ceiling, trying to count the pock marks. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, in a rather dramatic way.

Hey Grandma, it's Petey. I know I've been lacking in talking to you lately. I've been really busy. I know it's not really an excuse, but I got a boyfriend. His name is Mikey and he's super cute, and he's got bipolar disorder, just like me. Hayley made us write our initials on the caps of our medicine bottles because she was worried that we were going to take each other's pills, which doesn't make sense because we take the same medication, just different dosages. I had to write my initials on my anxiety medication too. There are so many orange bottles on our bathroom counter because Mikey and I are the worst at putting our stuff away.

I'm scared, Grandma. Mikey isn't a permanent resident at the Home. He's going to go back to New Jersey in a week and I don't know what to do. I'm afraid that I'll do something stupid, and Jack and Alex won't be here this time. I don't think I'm ready to see you and Grandpa just yet. I haven't told Mikey about that yet. I don't want him to worry about me when he goes away. I want him to know I'm happy. But I'm going to miss him. I already miss him, and he's laying right next to me.

Pete felt his eyelids drooping slowly. Mikey sighed next to him and snuggled himself closer to Pete's side, oblivious to his boyfriend's conversation. Pete yawned and rubbed his eye.

Bye, Grandma. I'm tired.

\--

There was no need for connecting flights from California to New York, except that the airline Mr. Wentz had chosen stopped in Chicago, and he'd figured that he had better pay his parents a visit after disappearing for twelve years. He had intended on coming back, he swore. But stuff just kept happening, and on thing lead to another, and suddenly he wasn't living in Illinois anymore, and Pete was a ward of the state, and then Pete was out of his life and Pete's mother was in prison for child abuse while he was sitting in a cozy apartment in California with a law degree and no family.

Right now, he didn't look like he had a law degree. He was wearing an old Star Wars shirt and worn-out jeans, with dirty shoes. He ran his fingers over the words on the tombstones, mumbling "I'm sorry" and debating on whether this really was a good idea. He used to tell his mom everything, regardless of how disappointed she might be. He tried to teach Pete to do the same with his grandma, but he didn't know if Pete had remembered after twelve years.

"I'm seeing Pete again," he told his mom softly, as if he were afraid that she would come back from the dead and her zombie would slap him for being a less-than-stellar parent. He briefly thought about how that sentence might sound as he sat in the grass next to her. "I haven't seen him since he was five years old. I'm a pretty terrible dad, you know. I never kept in contact with him and I let him get shuffled wherever the courts thought would work. I don't think he'll want to see me, except maybe in a photo for "Worst Parent Ever," but I don't know." He waited in the quiet, hearing the leaves scrape across the asphalt walking areas. The thought of his zombie mother tsk-ing at him worked its way into the back of his mind.

"I found out that he's at this place in New York. They call it the Home. He's a permanent resident, but he only has an appointed legal guardian. The woman who runs it looks like she walked off the stage of a show and into reality. I'm glad that Pete isn't dead, you know? I worried that he would do something, because it would be my fault. Not his and not anyone else's. Not even his mom's. Just mine."

He checked his phone. His flight left in six hours. He figured that he'd better buy some lunch and check out of his hotel.

"Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad. I know I didn't talk to you, but I think that you heard everything too. I've gotta go, gotta meet my son."

\--

Pete was grinning like an idiot.

"Pete..." Mikey whined, tugging the hem of his shirt down and trying to wriggle away from his boyfriend. "Why are you always like this."

"Because you're so funny," Pete answered, trying to slip his hands under Mikey's shirt again.

Mikey pushed at his hands. "I'm not having sex with you."

"I know."

Mikey stopped squirming and gave Pete a dirty look.

"What?" Pete didn't think he'd done anything. They made out all the time. Pete just wanted less shirt in the way.

"You just Han Solo'd me!"

Pete rolled his eyes and grabbed the hem of Mikey's shirt for a third time. "You are a dweeb, Mikey Way. Now lemme kiss your tummy."

"We're almost eighteen, Pete."

"Yeah, and? "Stomach" sounds weird in that situation. Are you going to help me get your shirt off or are you going to keep mocking me and not get kissed?"

Mikey rolled his eyes and pouted, laying on the bed and refusing to move. If Pete wanted to take his shirt off, fine. He was going to have to put in extra effort for it.

Now it was Pete's turn to give Mikey a dirty look.

"What?"

"Why are you so stubborn?"

Mikey raised his eyebrow and smirked. He made no movement to change his position so that Pete would have an easier time. Pete made sure that Mikey knew how done he was with him before taking the extra effort and pulling Mikey's shirt off. Mikey did his best to bother Pete. This included rolling on his side and smushing Pete's hands underneath his back.

"Fuck you, Mikey Way."

"I thought we were making out?"

After five minutes of Mikey being a little shit, his shirt was off, and Pete had thrown his own somewhere in the general direction of the closet. Mikey whined again, but this time it was because Pete was nipping at his lower lip incessantly. Pete grinned again and ran his hands up and down Mikey's sides, feeling the smooth skin broken up by old scars. Mikey's arms were around Pete's neck, holding him close.

Pete nudged Mikey backwards until they were laying on the bed again, Pete holding Mikey up. He couldn't stop smiling as he nipped at Mikey's lower lip yet again, feeling Mikey make a little noise from the back of his throat. Mikey wiggled a little until Pete moved his hands and their chests were pressed together. Pete brushed some of Mikey's hair out of his eyes and lifted his hands again, this time to run them across Mikey's back.

Pete felt endless in that moment, Mikey's lips on his, holding his boyfriend close. Safe and in love, without the worry that Mikey would be in New Jersey, and that he was going to live in the Home until he was in college, and that Mikey might never see him again, none of it mattered because they were together and they were in love and they were making out and

"Boys!"

"Can't you knock?"


End file.
